


or is it just madness

by a_r_b_u_s



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, As in Kakashi keeps the Sharingan, Canon-Typical Violence, Founders Era, M/M, Post-Fourth Shinobi War, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27917476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_r_b_u_s/pseuds/a_r_b_u_s
Summary: Kakashi, by now Rokudaime, is transported back in time to the Founders Era. He doesn't know how, he doesn't know why, but three-year-old Sarada is with him and he must find a way to bring her back to her parents.
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 99
Kudos: 332





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few years back, I talked about finding a way to throw Kakashi and Madara together in a way that made that pairing if not probable, than at least believable. After mulling over the details for close to two years, I think I managed.
> 
> This is me, working my way out of a big, sticky, ugly writing slump.

The nightmares, infrequent already in his late twenties, had all but ceased to haunt him. There was only one left, always the same one, too. This one recurring dream that accompanied him since the Fourth War came to an end, and Kakashi supposed it wouldn’t shake off like the others because it had burned itself into his retina. That long day, when the sharingan had been active and overused to the point it had left the vision of his left eye permanently glazed. Since that day, every time he used it, he blinked through a grey haze. So he didn’t anymore. The images of his dream, displayed onto the canvas that was his consciousness, like a broken movie projector displays the same sequence over and over again. 

Obito’s gift, that had felt like an open wound in his face the entirety of his life, had now transformed into a relic, something that he felt he was supposed to leave behind on the battlefield but didn’t.

He let go of so many things that day. He regrets that he couldn’t let go of Obito’s gift, too.

Kakashi takes a breath that fills his lungs with sweet summer air, then releases it in a long, soothing stream. He moves his arm were he had kept his face hidden in his elbow and shoves the crooked hitai-ate up to rub the cups of his index and middle finger against his closed eyelid to meet the itch that has flared up once more. He doesn’t think on it, the gesture something like routine already. First, he had sought of allergies or maybe an infection, but now it’s a mere inconvenience, too irregular and easily ignored to make him worry.

"Kashi!“ He looks down as a small body bumps into him, and catches Sarada as she overbalances. A frown screws up her little face and wrinkles her nose, and Naruto calls it the patent Uchiha scowl, but Kakashi has seen it on Sasuke more times than he can count and this is one hundred times sweeter.

“Maa, Sarada-chan, we really have to work on your stealth skills.”

She looks at him, and the way she cocks her head to the side in an effort to understand him reminds him of a puppy that tries very hard to decipher its human’s intentions.

Kakashi lifts her into his lap, reeling in his long legs so that she can lean against his thighs and wiggles them a bit, and Sarada gurgles up a laugh and squeaks as the motions make her bounce. Kakashi crinkles his eyes in a smile and pulls the hitai-ate back down, which earns him another interested stare.

Absently he notes that Naruto’s normally overwhelming chakra signature has gone, and he takes a look around the river bank to look for the others. What he sees makes his head spin slightly, as if a particularly nasty jutsu had caught him off guard. Everything is as when he fell asleep, from the late summer’s sun beating down on him, to the smell in the air. And yet, there are differences, too, glaringly obvious but so subtly blend into the scenery that it is hard to make them out on their own. He recognizes the bend in the river, but is the riverbed broader than before? The Nanako also appears to hold more water, its current too violent for the dry summer they have had. There are bushes and trees Kakashi doesn’t remember, perfectly fitting, and still they appeared like an afterthought to Kakashi’s eye, like a belated brush of paint on an already finished work of art.

Kakashi looks down at Sarada, who gives him a quizzical look in return.

“A dream?”, he asks her, and she seems delighted by the inflection in his voice. She crows, then says: “Dream!” Kakashi smiles at her, but his heart isn’t in it. The sense of security that allowed him to dose off in the middle of the day has vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by the slowly crawling realization of dread. Something is off. Something is wrong.

“Kai”, he says softly, bringing his hands together as he releases a burst of chakra. Sarada cocks her head again, confused. Kakashi gives her a crooked smile, wraps an arm around her and gets to his feet, balancing her on his hip. Her small hands fist in the fabric of his shirt. He isn’t wearing a flak vest or even a weapon’s pouch, an indulgence he allows himself on the rare occasions of a day off. Naruto had called him old because of it, and Sakura had given him a gentle, slightly wistful smile, but now Kakashi certainly curses himself for his negligence. The only weapons on his person were a kunai, tucked away in the wrappings of his right shin, and a few meters of ninja wire, wrapped up tightly alongside it.

Kakashi fans the fingers of his left hand on Sarada’s little back, pulling her closer as he pushes the fabric of his tilted hitai-ate up again. Automatically he blinks through the haze he has not yet grown accustomed to as if this would disperse it – which it doesn’t - and spins on his heels, slowly.

It makes Sarada giggle, the high noise cutting through the sudden thickness of the silence, and reverberating on his piqued senses like a finger stroking a too tightly strung wire. Though he doesn’t spare her a glance he smoothes his fingers over her back, and makes the same soft cooing sound he has heard Sakura make so many times. Sarada looks up at him in wonder, probably because she isn’t used to that kind of caress from him, but the noises bubbling from her mouth die down.

Kakashi fights the urge to rub at his eye. Instead, he focuses on the tree line before them. He has the tactical advantage of the sun in his back, and however damaged the sharingan is, it still takes in every minute detail around it, pulling on his chakra reserves with the same tentalizing force as always, and he figures it has at least one kamui left in it, maybe more.

Nothing happens.

Kakashi can’t make out any movement along the tree line, everything is still. A gentle breeze carries sweet summer air and strokes through the leafage, producing a gentle rustle, carrying a whiff of the woods on its back that settles on the back of Kakashi’s tongue like the colour green, lush and verdant.

Sarada has gone still in his arms, and Kakashi wonders if she senses it too, with her body gone rigid and the fists that curl tightly around the fabric of his shirt. If she registers the absence of bird song, and that tinge like metal in the air, that even the familiar smell of the woods can’t fully hide, not to Kakashi’s nose, at least.

From somewhere within the woods, a branch snaps, the sound like a firecracker in the stillness.

And then, with a whoosh like wind blowing through a tunnel, a blast marked by whirling leaves and twigs and grass and little stones rushes his way, would have hit him full-on with its speed if not for the sharingan. He shifts his weight, pushes chakra into the soles of his feet, glides out of harm’s way. He lands, presses Sarada against himself, suddenly acutely aware of the absence of his flak vest, of the vulnerability of the bundle in his arms.

With another burst of chakra, he takes off, lands on dry grass yellowed by sun. Sarada makes a startled sound, and he’d like to tell her to hold on tight but has no time as he whirls around, bringing the kunai up from where it was hidden beneath the wrappings of his leg and meets the blade of a tanto just in time to prevent it from slicing into his shoulder.

The nin wielding the tanto grits his teeth, a face framed by a white bandana, and Kakashi thinks Suna even without the crested hitai-ate. The nin widens his stance and pushes harder. Kakashi grunts as he matches the force. Channels chakra into his arm as it starts to shake. Feels the slip and slide of his feet over grass. He tries to dig his heels in but the earth is too smooth and dry. His opponent’s lips pull into a triumphant sneer, and he’s close enough now to see that they are flaked and dry, and a gush of bad breath hits Kakashi’s face. Sarada is crying now, loud and terrified, and the nin’s eyes flick to the child in Kakashi’s arms for the fraction of a second.

It’s enough.

A puff of smoke, and as the tanto finally manages to drive home, it hits a log instead of flesh. Kakashi is too far away already to hear the curse, makes for the trees for cover. With another chakra-induced jump his feet hit the first branch, high above the ground. A dull pain in his right knee joint nags at the back of his mind but is otherwise ignored, and he makes for the next tree, then the next.

Sarada wriggles in the tight lock of his arm like a disgruntled cat. Her face has turned an alarming shade of red, streaked by tears and snot, and she wails, a noise that rings painfully in Kakashi’s ears, in decibels he wasn’t even aware a child so tiny could muster. His cooing sounds are drowned by her cries. She is inconsolable with the shock of the attack and his adrenaline induced heartbeat she must feel pressed so close against his chest, with the wind rushing through her hair at a speed she likely never travelled before.

It is stupidly hard to form a hand sign with that wriggling bundle in his arm and the constant fear to let her fall, and Kakashi has renewed respect for how completely Sasuke has adapted his style with only one arm left. He manages, sends his kage-bunshin off into another direction, but it won’t do if Sarada keeps screaming like that. With his heart in his throat in a way Kakashi hasn’t experienced in a long time, he skids to a halt on the next branch, catches Sarada’s round cheeks between index finger and thumb and forces her head up.

"Sarada“, he coos in a sing-song voice. The light tone catches her attention, and the moment her eyes flit to his, big and round and swimming in crocodile tears that makes his heart clench unexpectedly, his sharingan spins to life. Her eyelids droop immediately, and in a matter of seconds her body goes slack, suddenly a heavier weight in his arm he has to adjust to keep on holding tightly. Footsteps scraping against bark push another shot of adrenaline through his veins, and he is off again, determined to follow the trees deeper into the woods. He contemplates the Forest of Death, with its thick undergrowth and heavy foliage a perfect hiding place. No shinobi outside Konoha is familiar enough to find their way through, and he figures it his best chance to —

Earth bursts beneath. There is enough force behind it that crumbs hit Kakashi’s cheek; then a hand reaches for his ankle. Earth style jutsu, the same technique he has used time and again, and only that deeply ingrained knowledge gives his reflexes a head-start. He gives up his spot in the trees for the ground, lets himself fall off the edge of another branch instead of making for a jump. There is time for a burst of triumph to surge inside him, but then a sharp pain explodes in his foot and leg and all the way up to his hip as a sharp blade grazes the calcanea tendon of his right foot, and he hears his own voice scream out in pain before he can help it.

Coherent thought leaves him for a burst of white light before his eyes, and his lunge turns into an uncontrolled fall. His hindbrain, somehow, remembers the precious little weight in his arms, though, and makes his body turn mid-fall, so that he hits the ground with his back first. Hot pain shoots down his spine and he grunts as all the air is pressed out of his lungs. Confused, alarmed, he rolls himself over the ground, both arms up and with his hands guarding Sarada’s head, just in time to evade a chakra-enhanced strike. Wind jutsu slashes the cloth on his right arm, but doesn’t breach skin, and he counts that as a victory.

Still dizzy, he realizes that he needs to take back control of the situation. Then, the wave of killing intent hits him as his attacker makes for another lunge, and Kakashi finds himself rolling again, suddenly with the sweet, dank smell of the Nanako back in his nose. Gravel underneath him, and he blinks through that damned haze of his sharingan to realize that they landed at the bend of the river further upstream.

He can’t fight like that, rendered impotent by the child that occupies his arms, a foot that flops at a sickening angle when it moves and shoots wave after wave of pain up his entire body. Somewhere along the way, he has lost the kunai. 

A cold push of chakra crashes over him like a heavy storm, and then a face leans into his field of vision. A round, bald head, the intricate tattoo of a dragon crawling around his skull, it’s claw covering the right eye, and from beyond the dragon’s claw, a dark, burning gaze. 

"A Hatake indeed“, the shinobi says in a surprisingly high voice, sounding almost intrigued, "and is this a sign of peace you’re sporting? So much for your clan’s precious neutrality.“

Kakashi has no idea what the other shinobi is talking about, but reads in the subtle shift in his stance, the minimal movements of the muscles in his bare forearms that he is preparing for an attack. Lying on his back, he unlocks his arms from Sarada, whose body rests limply on his chest as he makes the signs.

He knows the other nin sees it, but before he can so much as lunge Kakashi is finished, and behind him rises a column of water into the sky, then bends, shoots like a projectile into the shinobi’s direction. The man jumps out of the way, but Kakashi makes the column - not fully a dragon, no time for such fancy now - follow him. And even as it crashes to earth, shattering into a tide that sweeps at the man’s feet as he dances back further, Kakashi brings his hands together in another seal, covering the riverside in a heavy mist that weighs on one’s chest and shoulders, that smells of chakra and Kiri and gives enough cover for him to roll further down the slope, until his body hits water. 

Frantically, he searches his mind for a jutsu that will make it easier for them to breath underwater, but before it comes to him the cold stream engulfs both of their bodies, Sarada clutched against him, and he sinks into the river, lets its stream catch him and carry him away, pushing his left leg for leverage to keep them above the surface while hoisting Sarada up higher until her ruddy cheek, that feels feverish and makes Kakashi worry, is pressed against his own masked one.

The current catches them easily, transports them into the midst of the river where it runs strongest, whirls and drags at Kakashi’s frame in an attempt to drag him deeper. Kakashi focuses on pushing a constant stream of chakra into his legs, his right one pulsing in the soothing cool of the river. The sun glares down and blinds him with its white light as his eyes wash over the river bank, his sharingan spotting the sparks of chakra running down the river, obviously in an attempt to locate him through the mist.

Kakashi reigns in his chakra, then, curling it around himself as tightly contained as possible while still keeping them afloat, and for a moment he has time to think, to wonder why a group of missing-nin attacked him, if it was an attempt on the Hokage’s life or on the Copy Nins, if it was politics or revenge or if, and that is a possibility that Kakashi must keep in mind, too, they are after Sarada, daughter of Uchiha Sasuke, a man that has easily made as much enemies as Kakashi, likely more.

By the looks of the first shinobi that attacked them, by the jutsu they used, Kakashi guessed Suna. But Gaara wouldn’t allow such an attack, has grown to be their closest ally, thanks to Naruto, and Kakashi himself just corresponded with him the other day about the decline of missing-nin from Sunagakure, now that the joint agricultural program with Fire Country is finally taking roots, allowing the Land of Wind to finally recover from the aftermath of war, giving hope for a new prosperity the likes the country has never known before.

And then there was the wind jutsu user that almost sliced Kakashi’s foot right off, the one with the tattoo, with a chakra so strong and saturated with the barren winds of the desert that it was almost overwhelming. It makes Kakashi wonder, because surely a missing nin of that caliber would have been renowned amongst the Elemental Nations, and Kakashi personally oversees each entry in the bingo book, the official one and the one ANBU uses, with targets only they can know about.

Sarada breath fans against the exposed skin of his cheek, along the line of the mask. The river, although warmed by summer, still runs cool enough for her small, unmoving body to shiver. He must get her out of the water, must get her dry and warm and somewhere safe. Kakashi worries about Sakura and Naruto, about the complete absence of both of their chakra signatures. He needs to find them, but more importantly, he has to make it back to the village to send for reinforcement, and fast.

Just as he makes for the opposite river bank in long pulls of his legs - every move of his right leg pulls at a point in his spine in a hot flare of pain, sparking dark blooms across his vision - using one arm to hurl his body forward, chakra flares before him, and this one is strong, oppressive, makes him choke on it as it smashes down on him in a whirl of red and black. Water splashes as feet land on its surface a few meters right next to where Kakashi is pushing for the shore, then, a hand grabs the sweater at the back of his neck and he is hurled out of the water like he weighs nothing, like a pup in the scolding grip of its mother’s fangs. He finds himself flying through the air, and just barely shifts his weight, turns to land on his feet at the shore. A sound of surprise catches in his throat.

His foot refuses to support his weight, and he sinks to his knee with a cry. Blood gushes hot over his ankle and soaks his sandal. He lands on his ass, heart in his throat and eyes wide as the man draws nearer, walking over the current with secure steps, and that blood-red chakra burns itself across Kakashi’s skin, so fierce Kakashi can do nothing but scramble backwards, too aware of Sarada sleeping in his arms, her body shivering and defenseless. Kakashi is shivering, too, but it’s not from the cold. Vaguely, he knows he displays all the symptoms of shock, and that he should start countermeasures in order for him to set his survival instinct back in motion, in order for them to stand the slightest chance, but he can’t, not in the face of Uchiha Madara, stalking towards him in an easy pace, Mangekyo boring into Kakashi’s eyes, black and red and red and black, and Kakashi, feeling dazed and half-sure that he is dreaming, suddenly knows that he has to get up, that he has to kill this man, this monster who was betrayed and long dead and gone and who is now towering over him, feet planted firmly between Kakashi’s legs, in a pool of Kakashi’s blood. And as he uncrosses his arms, making to grab for Sarada, Kakashi thinks his heart might stop.

"She’s Uchiha“, he pushes out through gritted teeth, the only thing that might, just might make a difference, because he can’t let anything happen to Sarada, can’t let anything happen -

The hand hesitates for a fraction of a second, then continues, and in the red and black and black and red of Madara’s sharingan, Kakashi drowns.


	2. Chapter 2

"Where“, Kakashi asks, hands around the iron bars of his prison cell, "is Sarada?“ The calmness of his voice his betrayed by his white-knuckled grip, and Madara’s eyes flit from Kakashi’s face to his hands and back. Kakashi huffs, lets go, takes a step back, but it’s too late. Madara has already seen. Madara has already noticed his attachment, and maybe it was foolish to hope otherwise to begin with, because Kakashi doesn’t know what he found out when he put him under, isn’t sure what pages of his mind Madara has been able to read.

"Cooperate, shinobi, and I might consider telling you.“

His deep voice echoes from the stone walls of Kakashi’s jail. In the flickering light of the torches shadows cross over his face, even though he remains perfectly motionless, making it hard to read him at all. He sits on a chair across from Kakashi, relaxed, with his arms crossed and his chin up. They are separated by only two paces and a row of bars, and Kakashi could grab for him if he tried, but both of them know how futile an effort that would be, and in whose death it would ultimately resolve.

They sealed his chakra, and it burns, aches like exhaustion but warmer, runs like a fever through his veins. Tsunade once explained to him that that’s because the pathways are blocked, and that the chakra has nowhere to go. Unable to release that constant stream of energy, it accumulates, dams up. His sharingan thrums to the mad rhythm of his pulse, blind to the world. Kakashi never had his chakra sealed away before, not once in all his years in ANBU and then as jounin, and he has no idea what it does to Obito’s eye. When he tries to open it now, all he sees is darkness.

Kakashi wonders where he was brought. He has woken to the sight of a cracked stone ceiling and a dull throb in his right ankle. It’s not moist, not crowded. He is the only prisoner in a row of six cells, and from the far end of the short corridor, a staircase leads up into the light of day. The smell wafting into the cells is sweet, and familiar. It’s Konoha’s smell, of trees and growth, a constant undercurrent of all kinds of wood. It makes Kakashi ache even more, because either Madara has him under a genjutsu, or he has Konoha.

Kakashi doesn’t want to think that as a possibility, but who’s to say? A man who rose from death twice, who almost took over the world with his insane plan of an Infinite Tsukuyomi, a man who used Obito and even Kakashi himself as a puppet —

Oh no.

If he is here, if this really is Konoha, it can only mean he has defeated Naruto.

Because Naruto would never leave the village defenseless.

Madara huffs into the silence, and Kakashi isn’t one to stir easily, but he hates his haughty face, the way he manages to look down on him although he’s the one standing up.

"Let us start with an easy question, then“, he says, "What is your name?“

Kakashi snarls, has to fight that feeling of utter helplessness that resides under his ribcage since the moment he laid eyes on the Uchiha. Has to fight down that consuming urge to hate, to tear, to take revenge for Obito, for Rin …

For daring to come back to haunt them, again, when it is supposed to be over, when Kakashi is supposed to build up what has been broken down under the delusional, power-hungry hands of this man.

Madara closes his eyes. Takes a breath, then opens them again. He says:

"I will ask you one last time, shinobi. Tell me your name. And I advise you not to test my patience, because I can assure you, there is not much of it left.“

Madara’s eyes are black, his sharingan is not yet activated. Kakashi knows, he can’t assume that anything he sees is real. If he is under a genjutsu, he wouldn’t be able to tell. If this is a genjutsu, though, he doesn’t see the purpose of being interrogated in that manner. He would have thought to find himself cut open and bleeding by now. Instead, the wound in the heel of his foot has been taken care of, the tendon still tender but healed, resting now under a thick layer of ointment that smells spicy and herbal, wrapped by clean bandages. They even left him his mask, and even when its damp and stinks of river water, sweat and waste, he is glad for it. This churlish interrogation sits wrong with him, somehow.

So he says:

"I’m Hatake Kakashi. I’ll consider cooperating with you if you bring me to Sarada, the girl I had with me when you found me.“

Something in Madara’s eyes lights up, and is gone so quickly that Kakashi doesn’t know if it was recognition or something else.

"Fished you out of the river, you meant to say“, Madara corrects haughtily, cocking an eyebrow and lifting his chin a little further. "You will consider it, Hatake Kakashi? Do you have any idea who it is you are talking to?“

No recognition, then. Kakashi wonders about that, because Madara knows him, from the battlefield. From his attempt to steal Obito’s eye from him, they where face to face for that moment before Gai’s roundhouse kick saved the eye and probably Kakashi’s life. Even if he didn’t recognize him, Kakashi would have assumed Madara remembered him at least by name. Hatake Kakashi, the foolish, thirteen-year-old jounin he used like a puppet to set his plans into motion.

Madara’s eyebrows crease, obviously reaching the limits of his patience already, but Kakashi doesn’t care. His thoughts should have riled him up even more, should have made him mad with anger, but, peculiarly and not for the first time in his life, he finds that his anger curls inwards, winds itself tightly around his bones and settles there, and it clears his head, gives him room to breathe and think.

Madara opens his mouth to speak, but Kakashi cuts him off after the first few syllables, careless.

"I do know who you are. Now, bring me to Sarada, or I won’t talk to you any further.“

At this, Madara actually laughs, a short, barking noise that rings unpleasantly in Kakashi’s ears.

"What is a Hatake doing on this land uninvited?“, he says, unperturbed. And then, with a pleasant little smile that is everything but, he leans in, almost conspiratorial. The eyes, looking out from a pale face that is framed by a heavy curtain of hair, grow hard. "And what is a Hatake doing with an Uchiha’s kekkei genkai? This, I really want to know. Care to tell me?“

Somehow, the false air of indifference has turned to ice, and Kakashi stares into the face of a shark that sniffed blood, a predator on the brink of attack.

Slowly, without conscious thought, his hand goes up as if to cup his sharingan. He brings himself under control immediately, but of course, Madara has registered the movement.

Kakashi doesn’t understand why Madara is asking him these questions.

All of this, Madara already knows.

All of this, he must have witnessed through Obito’s eyes when he nurtured him back to life, dug a pit into his despair and nestled there, the beneficiary of this symbiosis of hatred and confusion that was Obito’s fractured mind.

" _A_ Hatake?“, is all he can think to reply, because with everything else, this strikes him as a particularly odd thing to say. It reminds him of what the shinobi with the dragon tattoo said to him. _A Hatake indeed. So much for your clan’s precious neutrality._

A little sluggishly, Kakashi feels different pieces come together to form an idea in his mind, but it is so far-fetched, so impossibly outlandish …

Madara still smiles his shark smile. He gets up from his chair, and when Kakashi takes an automatic step back, that smile grows wider, revealing a set of teeth that is full and white and unblemished.

Kakashi could have sworn Gai had managed to knock at least a few holes into that perfect smile.

Kakashi also wonders why, how, Madara came back as himself, not as the Juubi.

"See, now I lost my patience. And to think that I was kind enough to warn you about it. Yet, you choose to ignore me.“

Madara’s Mangekyo spin to life. Kakashi has time to wonder about one last thing: Where is the rinnegan? Then, Madara crows his finger, and Kakashi follows the motion like an invitation, like he never even considered the man dangerous at all.

Madara’s smile doesn’t vanish, doesn’t even falter, when he reaches out through the bars and takes Kakashi’s face in his hand, chin pinned between his fingers. Red and black, black and red, and a particular sensation in the back of Kakashi’s head, like hundreds of tiny spiders crawling across his skull.

Madara asks: "What is your name?“

Kakashi says: "Hatake Kakashi.“

"Who is the Uchiha you stole that sharingan from?“

"I didn’t steal it.“

"Who did you kill to get it?“

"Nobody.“

The grip around his chin tightens, but Kakashi only notices this absently, as if it weren't really happening to him at all. He feels warm, and pleasant, and a little fuzzy. It’s actually quite a nice feeling, much nicer than the time Uchiha Itachi used his Mangekyo on him.

"Who is Uchiha Itachi?“

Whoops, Kakashi thinks. Has he said that out loud? He shouldn’t tell Madara about Itachi, but it is strange that he wouldn’t know him. Maybe Itachi only ever talked to Obito. Likely Madara never met any of the other members of Akatsuki at all.

"What is Akatsuki?“

"It’s a band of mercenaries, missing-nins. It was a pain to fight against them.“

Kakashi feels a trickle of apprehension down his spine, like a warning. He doesn’t understand.

"Who is Obito?“

Kakashi smiles. Maybe that’s a dumb question, coming from Madara, but that man is _old_. And he can’t know, can he, that Obito is his best friend, at least that idolized version that still resides deep inside of Kakashi, that he harbors no complex, complicated and conflicting feelings for. Obito, through whose eye he is seeing the future -

A spark like triumph, but that’s not his feeling, is it. And with that spark, the sensations rush back to Kakashi, and he remembers that he is standing in front of Uchiha Madara, who pins him down with his Mangekyo sharingan, holds him in place to stare deep into his eyes, but whose eyes grow wide know, in shock or surprise Kakashi can’t tell.

The dull throb of Obito’s sharingan explodes into a headache, a fucking migraine, but the onslaught of sudden, insistent pain is accompanied by a surge in his chakra, and his sharingan spins to life, its vision clear and sharp like it was when Kakashi was still getting used to it, so precise it hurts in its clarity, all the information almost too much for his brain to take in. And he takes in _all_ the details, he sees that black-haired boy with the yukata and the unruly hair, skipping stones, looking out from what is not yet Hokage mountain, the teenager leading his family’s crest in battle, with his eyes always, always on the back of the man walking ahead of him, and then he is older still, kneels in a dark room and cradles his brother’s dead body in his arms, and shakes his best friend’s hand with apprehension in his heart, and hopes against all odds, only to be let down, _again_ —

"STOP IT!“ Kakashi is shoved backwards, not by hands but by sheer power alone, a wave of chakra bakes his skin red-hot-ruddy, and he stumbles on his right leg, sinks onto the cot he woke up on, and _understands_.

Madara topples over, presses the palms of his hands to his eyes and groans. Kakashi stares at him, the world suddenly brighter with new-found clarity. This isn’t the Madara Kakashi knows. Not yet, anyway. This Madara knows nothing of the jinchuriki, of becoming the Juubi, nothing of a small boy crushed by rocks and nothing of the Moon Goddess. This is Madara, one of the founders of Konoha, and he is so angry, so mistrustful, but he is not, yet, a maniac.

"Uchiha-sama!“ A shinobi with a ponytail and the same long robes Madara wears comes running, taking two steps at a time but then stops, hesitates to touch Madara before he reaches out after all, resolved, only for his hands to be pushed away brusquely.

"I’m alright“, Madara says, voice harsh, and draws himself up as if to proof it, but the burst veins in the whites of his eyes belie him, and the moisture in their corners gleam red with blood. Kakashi sees all this because Madara stares at him, not quite in the eye, Kakashi notices. Madara opens his mouth as if to say something, but then just makes a noise like a growl, bristling with anger as he rushes past Kakashi’s cell, towards the staircase. The pony-tailed shinobi - another Uchiha, by the looks of the crest boldly emblazoned across the back of his robes - follows Madara. He turns once to look over his shoulder at Kakashi, confused and a little apprehensive, before he vanishes up the stairs into the light of day as well.

Kakashi presses himself against the iron bars, and he feels his anger surge, like the sparkling, energizing onset of chidori, and he shouts after them, demands for Sarada. He watches the tip of the Uchiha’s shadow wander over the last visible step, and then disappear. Kakashi curses, suddenly drained.

He blinks, his vision blurring again, and sinks down at the edge of the cot with a pained groan. His head, he feels, is going to implode any moment now. It's as if there is too much pressure, pent up right behind Obito’s eye, like all that chakra found some sort of release but not nearly enough. He closes the eye, sinks back until his shoulders and the back of his head touches cool stone, and he turns so that he can press his cheek against it. It’s a heaven-sent, wonderfully cold on his fever-hot skin. Dizzily, Kakashi wonders how the fuck he managed to get himself into this kind of situation.

He is Hokage during a period that promises to be the longest bout of peace Fire Country has ever known. He is supposed to do stupid paperwork, drag Shikamaru to yet another grand opening where he’d cut a ribbon with ridiculously big scissors and give a bullshit smile for the cameras while he is thinking of Icha Icha or a bath in the onsen or Naruto’s invitation to dinner with his cute little family. He’s supposed to be bored out of his mind in meetings and worry about outstanding bills for all the construction sides blossoming in Konoha, his Konoha. What he is not supposed to be doing is sit in a cell with a raging headache, confronted by Uchiha Madara and unintentionally mind-fuck him, pardon the pun.

What he is not supposed to be doing is time travel into what appears to be the founding era of Konoha.

Kakashi sighs wearily. This is just his luck, isn’t it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... the shinobi with the dragon tattoo? Hahaha, that wasn't even intentional.


	3. Chapter 3

After the interrogation, nothing happens for the eternity of two whole days. Under different circumstances, Kakashi might have felt glad to be left to his own devices to think, but it is not his life he is worried about. He understands, with not little wonder, how much he has softened since the earliest days as the jounin sensei of three untamable, gawky brats. Back then, his worries had translated into a distant coolness he maintained, not always intentionally, an indifference he seems no longer able to feign even to himself. Sarada’s wellbeing feels no more important than that of the little genin he was once responsible for, but the emotional impact is different now. It is closer, raw in a way he has not allowed himself to feel for most of his adult life. It makes him vulnerable as a consequence.

Still, there is enough time to ruminate in the completely absurd, certainly abstract and, until a few days ago, seemingly impossible concept of time travel. He has known that a theory exists, has learned of it a couple of days after his inauguration: Hidden away behind tomes and mountains of scrolls in the library of Hokage tower, a forbidden jutsu, noted down in sharp handwriting and allegedly created to bend time and space itself.

Impossible, the elders had said. A pipe dream.

And all the better for it.

But, in Kakashi’s mind, unbidden but not entirely unwelcome, forms the picture of Obito, the way he was towards the very end: half his face a crater of flesh, hair as white as the pasty right half of his maltreated body which was crumbling in front of them. And his eyes, mellow and glistening with the kind of regret that knows that not even the sacrifice of his own life will pay back the accumulated debt entirely.

How different, really, is the idea of time travel from kamui, which is capable to open a gate into another dimension?

How strange is it in the face of a power-mad Uchiha, unknowingly unleashing a vengeful Goddess onto mankind?

What does impossible even mean, when a human being can absorb not one but ten tailed beasts and turn into the Juubi, a being so powerful, so otherworldly, it is beyond the laws of nature?

He paces in the small vicinity of his cell: three steps in each direction. His ankle pulses with the faint kind of ache that is just a good night’s rest away from healing entirely. He wonders how this is possible. His tendon had been all but severed, and even with the advantages of modern medical jutsu he is sure that, in _his_ time, it would have taken weeks to heal properly.

He stretches, the tips of his fingers brushing the low ceiling. The stone is cool to the touch. The stretch is exactly what he needs, but it doesn’t release the restlessness, the worry; on the contrary, it makes it worse.

And in the depths of his consciousness, he can feel the kernel of curiosity grow. A most unhealthy trait for a shinobi, yes, but still he peeks from between the bars of his cell, inhaling the air as if it transported any kind of valid information.

When they finally come for him in the depth of night, Kakashi feels as if a too tightly wound spring resides inside of his stomach, ready to snap at the next best opportunity. He smothers it with a false sense of calm.

Their step bounce off the walls. Three shinobi, but only one treads lightly enough to warrant the description. He makes a point to stay stretched out on the cot, hands folded on his chest. He keeps his eyes closed even as the sound of footsteps subsides in front of his cell. The dim light of the torches dye the world behind his eyelids orange. He cannot feel their chakra signature. It must be because of the seal that blocks his pathways and causes a perpetual ache behind his left eye. After days in near-isolation, however, he is oddly aware of their breathing, the rustling of their clothes.

His only other visitor has been the pony-tailed Uchiha, who brought him a bowl of rice and a pitcher of water, twice.

No Madara to proceed poking Kakashi’s mind, and he wonders about this.

"Get up, Hatake“, a woman’s voice says. It is not unpleasant, low in timbre and obviously used to giving commands.

Kakashi considers this, then settles for: "Where is Sarada?“

"She is safe“, the woman answers.

"That is what you keep telling me. I assume you understand why I find it hard to believe you.“

"We would never hurt a child“, the woman responds, voice firm. "It is not Konoha policy.“

Kakashi turns his head, stretches his neck so that he can see the figures standing in front of his cell. Two men, one tall and one short, and a woman. After a quick scan of the other two, Kakashi’s eye lands on her: She is obviously the one in charge.

Her face is long, framed by light brown hair done up into an intricate knot on the back of her head. Still in her twenties, Kakashi wagers, but she exudes an aura of resolve that makes her seem older, matured beyond her years. Her stare is hard. It reminds Kakashi of the veteran ANBU operatives, eyes like pebbles behind clay masks.

None of them wear what Kakashi knows to be the traditional Uchiha clothing with its wide-rimmed collar and long sleeves. Instead, the men sport yukata and hakama, and the woman a slight variation of the standard Konoha uniform Kakashi himself is familiar with: trousers and a long-sleeve, though even from the distance, the material looks to be made from natural sources, not synthetic like the uniform he is wearing right now. The sleeve, rather prominently to Kakashi’s eye, misses its bright orange crest that is the symbol of Konoha.

"Is that so?“, he asks and pretends her words haven’t struck a cord. It is probably one of the first sentiments that is drilled into them from early childhood, always with a streak of pride, no matter who says it: Konoha, founded by Senju Hashirama, the first shinobi village, created to shelter its children from war.

Children, of course, meaning infants up to the age of eight, until they are considered able of mind and body to begin their ninja training.

"That is very honorable of you.“ Just before he lowers his head again, he catches sight of her widening eyes at his glib tone. A murmur runs between the two men, before it is cut short by what Kakashi can only assume to be a sharp gaze from the kunoichi.

"Your name is Kakashi, right? I think you misjudge your situation.“

"I already told your master: I’ll think about cooperating with you if you bring me to Sarada.“

His choice of words have the intended effect and raise a little commotion: feet shuffle, murmurs are exchanged. The smaller of the two men scoffs in offense, and the woman snaps: "Uchiha Madara is not our _master_.“

"Huh.“ Kakashi gets up on his elbow, dropping his feigned disinterest: "You are Senju, I take it?“

Three pairs of eyes look at him, their expressions unreadable. The woman says: "We are of the Senju clan, yes.“

Kakashi nods. In the faint flicker of the torchlight, he can see the crest stitched into their clothes, familiar only from old scrolls and history books.

The seed of an idea makes him swing his legs over the cot. He is grateful that his right foot is carrying his weight without any problem as he steps towards the bars. The woman doesn’t flinch, but the men behind her tense almost imperceptibly, ready to defend.

"I heard of your village“, Kakashi says, hoping against hope that whatever comes out of his mouth will placate them enough to start cooperating, "of Konoha. Astounding, what you have accomplished here.“ And, more wearily, more true than he cares to admit: "I am tired of war.“

"And the girl?“, the woman asks.

"She’s Uchiha“, Kakashi responds.

"We know that.“ A streak of impatience runs in her voice. „That doesn’t explain why she is with _you_.“

"Me, a Hatake“, Kakashi muses out loud.

The woman’s eyes narrow, and he understands too late that she thinks he is ridiculing her. A long, stretched-out moment of silence, and Kakashi breaks it before it can grow any tenser: "You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.“

"Try me.“

"I’d rather not.“

The woman’s lips tighten into an impressively thin line. Kakashi’s heart sinks: They will leave him to rot in his cell for this misstep, relinquish him to the Uchiha and to Madara’s wrath.

He knows he cannot ask for the man he is hoping to see. It is simply too dangerous to risk any more of their mistrust. He has no idea how well-known a man like Senju Tobirama is in this time, nor does he have any real sense how old he is.

The finer details on those points have always remained vague in the history books. He knows Tobirama is Hashirama’s younger brother, and knows that Hashirama was the leader of his clan when he founded Konoha, but the knowledge ends there. Tobirama, who is infamous in Kakashi’s time as the Hokage who invented hundreds of jutsu, could very well still be nothing more than a young soldier at this point in history. Or, perhaps, even a child.

Kakashi sincerely hopes not, because he pins much of his chances on Tobirama’s alleged scientific curiosity.

Even if Tobirama is only half as famous in his own time as he is in Kakashi’s, Kakashi wagers that it would be easier to get an eye-to-eye with Senju Hashirama’s younger brother if he doesn’t outwardly provoke a meeting. Let the mountain come to the shinobi, he thinks, eye flickering to the Senju crest once again. He is playing a high stakes game, but intuition very rarely, if ever, let him down.

As the kunoichi produces a chain of keys that jangle loud in the stillness, he draws an inconspicuous breath of relief.

"Step back“, she orders, and this time Kakashi is wise enough to comply.

Moments later, he steps out into the night, hands bound behind his back and an overeager, overgrown Senju guard on his heels. It is a rock of a man, absurdly-broad shouldered, bull-necked and heavy-muscled. He looms over Kakashi like impending doom itself, and Kakashi, who unfortunately hasn’t really grown wiser with age, can’t stop himself from saying: "Maa, what a big guy you are. Don’t tell me you felt the need to bring out the big guns just for me?“

The giant shinobi grunts, if flattered or annoyed, Kakashi has no way to tell.

The kunoichi doesn’t even deem to answer, just tsk-s in the back of her throat. The other guard gives him an unfriendly push. "Shut your mouth and walk, Hatake.“

As he stumbles into the moonlit street, Kakashi tries to brace himself, but nothing can prepare him for the onslaught of sheer surreality that hits him. It induces the same sensation of vertigo he felt when he awoke at the bed of Nanako river, only a thousand times stronger.

Konoha lies before him, strangely distorted in shape and proportion but oh so familiar nonetheless. Quite rudely, Kakashi thinks, he is pushed down what he recognizes as the main road; it looks the same even over a hundred years into the future, but instead of the compact rows of shops and restaurants that are so familiar to him there are construction zones in between far stretches of undeveloped land, consisting mostly of small groups of trees or long patches of grass. The familiar wood scent, normally just an undercurrent in the air, is all the stronger for it, potent and grounding. This is Konoha, not _his_ Konoha by any stretch, but still it spells _home_ and even in his current situation, he can’t quite seem to muster the sense of dread that would probably be appropriate.

Another shove, the heel of a hand non-too-gentle between his shoulder blades, makes him throw a glance over his right shoulder. Big guy stares back at him, hollow-eyed.

"Impressive, eh?“, the smaller guard preens next to Kakashi. And yes, Kakashi thinks, in its own, inverted way it is:

Everything is _smaller_ , reduced somehow. There are no street lamps; instead, torches burn every fifty meters or so. The absence of the glaring big screen advertisements that started to pop up everywhere in the last couple of years is so stark, induces such a strong nostalgia for his early childhood days that he half expects his father to stroll around the corner. Kakashi knows that Konoha’s village development has made fast progress after the Fourth War, even during the reparation period; so much so, in fact, that it can hardly be called a village anymore. Only a week ago Kakashi has authorized the development of a district on top of Hokage mountain, simply to account for the rapidly growing population.

And here, in this budding community of a village, there are no high rises, no apartment buildings, no Hokage tower and, strangest of all, no faces chiseled into the side of Hokage mountain but one, surrounded by a scaffold and clearly under construction. The wall, which has surrounded the village for all of Kakashi’s life, is also missing throughout large parts, leaving the village oddly open, uncomfortably so. More familiar to him are the structures of houses where he suspects the Uchiha and Senju to reside. But he knows of them only as the ancient part of Konoha, whereas here they look brand new and have a smell of freshly cut wood to them.

It is fascinating, it is history lived, breathed, and the small, geeky part of Kakashi’s brain that always loved to pour over his books cannot help but feel a tingle of giddy interest. Such tendencies were probably the reason Tenzo called him mad from time to time, usually accompanied by a heavy roll of the eyes.

"No reason to gawk, idiot. Keep moving“, the small guard says.

He sidesteps and thus avoids another shove from his big counterpart.

"Very impressive“, Kakashi retorts and crinkles his eyes at his rude guard, "if I had any complaints, though, it would be the lack of hospitality.“

The stern Senju woman, who is walking ahead of them by now, throws them an irritated glance.

The small guard blushes in angry humiliation; obviously, he deems it unbecoming to find himself insulted by a foreign shinobi, a prisoner no less.

How do they keep phrasing it, with a bit of wonder and not little detestation? _A Hatake._

Another interesting tidbit to keep in mind, surely.

"I’ll show you hospitality, you —" The small guard steps forward and Kakashi readies himself to dodge the hand that will grab for his arm, but before he is able to, the hair in the back of his neck rise, and suddenly, too many things are happening at once:

The small Senju, riled-up and ready to manhandle Kakashi a second ago, comes to an abrupt halt. So sudden and so complete is his stasis it is almost comical, if it weren’t for the utter shock displayed in his eyes that have grown wide like saucers. Kakashi can almost watch the color drain from his face, but there isn’t time to linger, no time to wonder or even think, because a breeze picks up and a blade swooshes as it comes crashing down on Kakashi’s back.

His senses cry alarm and make him duck and just in time. He avoids his skull being parted in two by a hair’s breadth and a simple bent of the knees, and even as the blade connects with the earth and his assaulter loses balance, his head screeches for how close the call has been. Either surprise or the chakra seal make him sluggish, because before he has done more than stare, the blade comes for him a second time.

Kakashi stumbles forward gracelessly, spins, low on his heels for a roundhouse kick against both ankles that rushes the giant shinobi off his feet.

"What is going on?“, the second guard stutters. "Daiki, what are you doing?!“

The kunoichi, decisively quicker on the uptake, shouts: "A henge! He’s an intruder!“

The pain in Kakashi’s right heel is a dull pull, sings of too much of a strain on a still healing wound. Ignoring it, he digs his heels into the earth and pushes himself away from the towering guard, who jumps to his feet surprisingly nimbly for a man of his stature. Kakashi jumps backwards, lands on his feet, and, in a moment of utter frustration, tears at his shackles that keep his arms tied behind his back.

It is energy spent for naught, and it costs him the precious half-second that would have prevented the next blow of the towering guard’s blade from striking only millimeters before his feet. Only now Kakashi can make out its crooked shape. A sickle, the handle wrapped in bandages, sporting a plaited ribbon that flutters as a breeze picks up around them.

From somewhere on his right, the kunoichi comes flying, both hands wrapped around a kunai, aiming for the intruder’s jugular. The man evades easily enough, causes her to change direction mid-jump to evade a counterstrike aimed to slice the side of her body open. He’s quick for a guy his size, Kakashi thinks, but not quick enough for me.

He takes the tenderness of his ankle into account as he leaps, ramming his shoulder into the towering intruder, thus preventing him to follow the kunoichi. He has no idea what is going on, but the giant clearly is not of Konoha, and the insistent strikes of his sickle sing trouble as much for Kakashi as for the two Senju, and that knowledge is enough for now.

The man overbalances, his surprise evident as his movements, for one precious heartbeat, cease. His hands grab for Kakashi’s shoulders but before he can get a hold of them Kakashi uses his momentum to swerve. He evades, dances on the tip of his toes and then pirouettes out of harm’s way as big guy, in a twinge of grunting fury, abandons tactics for brute strength as Kakashi hoped he would. The blow comes instantly, comes strong, but it comes too slow to pose a real threat to Kakashi who is long gone as the sickle hits the ground and buries deep. Earth explodes from the impact into every which direction. Kakashi doesn’t wait for the dust to settle. He hits the ground running, onto the next best roof, every step a reminder of his recent injury, and his heart is in his throat because he can feel the killing intent that reaches for him like greedy tendrils.

At his newly gained leverage point he realizes just how small this early version of Konoha really is. He is so used to the sprawling city landscape by now that, to his eyes, the edges of the village seem only a stone’s throw away in each direction.

It makes the sight before him all the more disturbing, and he tries to blink it away like one would a vision in an increasingly unsettling nightmare.

Seemingly on their own accord, his feet skit to a halt. Even though his hackles are raised in the knowledge of immediate pursuit, two instincts fight inside of him, and leave him in a momentary paralysis of indecision.

Or perhaps his mind finally decided to snap at this newest onslaught of unwanted information.

The sight surely is enough to steal anyone’s breath:

Against the pinkish-pale horizon, with the sun nothing more than a faint promise in the near future, he sees the swerving, unmistakable shadows of what must be at least a hundred shinobi, surrounding the village’s defenseless outskirts to the east. A wall of black, moving dots, and Kakashi fights the impulse to force the sharingan open. However, both the latent pain and the memory of its strange reaction to Madara’s interrogation tell him it would be a bad idea, so he refrains. Wind ruffles his hair; it is warm and light but makes him shiver nonetheless, runs like a chill down the length of his spine. The muscles in his abdomen, his upper arms and thighs contract with the knowledge of an impending fight.

And the village lies in peaceful slumber, the threat yet undetected.

 _Sarada_ , Kakashi thinks. It is enough to trigger the onset of panic that, if he lets it bloom, will leave him headless and erratic. He knows that he cannot afford worry to distract him, because it will lead to mistakes. So he pushes down the anxiety with one firm shove and forces his legs to start moving again, his brain to start thinking. He has _one_ mission. It comes before everything else, even the safety of the village he fought his whole life to defend: He needs to find _Sarada_. He needs to make sure she is safe, to keep her safe, and find a way to bring her home. To do so, his next steps are obvious: He needs to disappear into the shadows that remain of the night to get out of what will soon be the line of fire.

He needs to get rid of his pursuer, of the shackles that bind his hands and the seal that caps his chakra supply and makes him defenseless and irritable from the latent tingling ache.

In short, he needs to survive the rest of the night.

Well, Kakashi thinks, allowing for a crooked smile to form under his mask. I’ve had worse.

Then again, most everything pales in the face of the wrath of a moon goddess.

From behind him, like the steady thrum of a pulse, wave after wave of killing intent pushes against his shoulders, his back, reaching out. Kakashi fastens his pace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you -- so much -- for all your positive feedback, and for all the reading, kudo'ing, and commenting. 
> 
> Happy New Year, you guys! You're awesome.


	4. Chapter 4

Kakashi racks his brain for any information of an attack of a foreign clan on Konoha, but he cannot recall. How can this be? A siege during the village’s founding years could be impossibly forgotten, not even in the thickets of time.

His feet hit shingles and the straw of thatched roofs alike. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals the massive outline of a figure on the rim of the nearest roof, looking about, and Kakashi’s pulse quickens. The false Senju’s pursuit induces an unfortunate sense of déjà vu, when a few days ago Kakashi fled along the curves of Nanako river.

At least then Sarada had been safe in his arms; now, he has only a vague idea where to find her, and with both his hands and chakra bound his arsenal is severely diminished. What is more, he doesn’t dare to try using his sharingan, fears the latent throb behind Obito’s eye will implode into a blinding, paralyzing headache.

He is looking for a chance to get off the rooftops and into the streets, most of which are unfortunately broad and accessible, nothing like the narrow alleyways that lead like a hidden labyrinth through the Konoha of his time. He knows these streets by heart, played hide-and-seek with his father in them as part of his training routine, used to roam them with an ANBU mask on and, later, hide from unbidden encounters as the sensei of three untamable wanna-be-shinobi. The village’s layout has not changed all that much, per se, not as far as Kakashi can tell as he is scouting it mid-run. But it is dizzyingly different nevertheless, like the vague pendant in a dream. It is impossibly hard to distinguish between the expectations his mind seems to conjure all of its own and the reality Kakashi is confronted with.

He has hardly landed on a side street, narrowed by handcarts and two-wheel barrows, when a moment later his pursuer hits the ground behind him with a grunt, shattering Kakashi’s hope of having at least a head start on him.

“Seems like I can’t outrun you”, Kakashi says with a sigh as he turns to face the giant of a shinobi. Still in his Senju appearance, and Kakashi wonders why he wouldn’t drop the henge. “Unfortunately for me, I can’t fight you either.” He turns enough to showcase his bound wrists, the shackles clinking as he wriggles his fingers. “Quite the predicament, eh?”

The big guy doesn’t answer. There is nothing in his face that indicates that he even understood Kakashi’s words. He swings the sickle in his hand and takes a step forward.

Kakashi deems that answer enough.

“Not very talkative, are we”, he says, and takes the leap.

He elicits a grunt from his opponent as he lands on the broad of the blade, tiptoeing it with delicate balance that strains his chakra-depleted muscles as he swings his right leg for a kick aimed at the giant’s jaw. The other draws back his head just in time, and the tip of Kakashi’s boot only grazes skin. The sickle is drawn away from under him, and he hangs in the air for a moment that seems longer than it actually is, pulls his muscles tight one more time for another kick: this time, his left leg, and his shin connects with a forearm that is hard like steel. Kakashi angles his foot, has the back of it smash against the giant’s left wrist. A pop, a crack, and a cry of pain as bone breaks.

The other hand grabs for his ankle. Kakashi has sacrificed balance as well as speed for that one injury and now pays the price as he is hurled through the air. He has no way to dampen the impact as he crashes, back first, against the nearest wall.

He moans, his neck singing from whiplash. His head rings as he slumps down onto the ground. Blood pools in his mouth from where he bit his tongue. Because of his mask, he has no choice but to swallow it, the stale metallic taste lingering in the back of his mouth. When he finally manages to get his bearings enough to look up, the world is tilted into an unnatural angle. He has to blink against the double-vision. His pursuer stalks him with the ease of someone who believes their prey felled and ready for the killing strike.

He raises the sickle, notably with his right hand. The left arm dangles uselessly at his side, the hand sticking out in a somewhat unhealthy angle. In the waning moonlight the figure looks ominous. With each step, he closes in on Kakashi. His shadow casts long and dark over him, blocking out any light source. A small breeze pulls at the strands of Kakashi’s hair. It bears the warmth of the desert, and in Kakashi’s mind blooms the vision of the Land of Wind, of plains of sand and heat and a shinobi with a face tattoo.

“You do not _belong_ ”, the giant says in a deep, dark rumble that makes the hair in the back of Kakashi’s neck stand. Kakashi’s brow furrows in confusion, but before the words have a chance to sink in, the sickle comes crashing down in one hard, wind-chakra induced swoop. Kakashi knows it is his only chance. He pushes off the wall with his left shoulder, rolls, and stretches out his arms behind his back in a blind, naive hope and fully expectant of the mind-crushing pain that will follow his utter stupidity.

Instead of the pain of a severed limb, however, the chain connecting the shackles cracks. Metal screeches as the blade drives through it like butter. In a heartbeat, Kakashi’s hands are free, and he somersaults away from the sickle that keeps trying to sink itself into his flesh.

Under a cry of utter frustration that resounds deep in Kakashi’s bones, he scrambles away on his hands and feet, his arms numb and almost-useless. He clamps for loose earth and throws it into his attacker’s face, before he forces his hands to grab for the next-best surface, which happens to be a window-ledge. Kakashi doesn’t dare to look back and thus challenge his luck, he just swings himself onto the roof and starts running again, blindly at first with the sheer disbelief that his reckless idea actually worked.

This latest encounter exhausted much of the energy left in Kakashi. He knows if he stops the fatigue will settle in his body and pull it down like lead. So he forces himself forward, across rooftops once again.

A hunch tells him that after Madara got his hands on her, Sarada will most likely be in the Uchiha compound. It is as good a guess as any, albeit an educated one. Thankfully, not everything has changed, and from his heightened spot Kakashi can make out the sprawling residences hidden away behind a wall in the south-west of the village. He has his heart set on that destination, knows that he won’t get a chance like this again.

Mid-run he takes a hard curve, flexes his legs to lower his point of balance as he hurls himself off the roof, out of the line of sight, and into an open window. He hardly registers the scream of terror and surprise that greets him. He rolls off his shoulder and over the floor, jumps straight back to his feet and just catches a glimpse of the woman, clutching a boy with big round eyes and dark hair and an awfully familiar face before Kakashi is out the other side of the room, another window and into a side street that lies dark and still.

From the direction of the Uchiha compound, bells begin to chime. Kakashi remembers this ancient alarm system from his early days as jonin. Since then, an elaborate security system has replaced it, its base in the underground levels of the T&I building. Soon after the bells, shouts reach Kakashi’s ears: Attack! We are under attack!

Kakashi tastes the tinge of metal in the back of his mouth, smells the ozone of yet-to-be-spent-energy. That is when a wave of burning-hot chakra hits him, dulled around the edges but irrefutable in its force. Inevitably it makes him stop dead in his tracks, and he stands, panting open-mouthed for breath that is suddenly hard to draw. Even with the seal blocking his pathways, Madara’s chakra licks against his skin like he is standing on a pyre, a force of nature that singes the very air. And it is stronger, much stronger now than it has been at the riverside, Kakashi realizes.

Off to the east, the commotion starts. The wind carries the all-too-familiar sounds of a skirmish towards Kakashi’s ears. Again, he thinks, it is just his luck to be thrown back in time into practically the exact moment when some foreign clan deems to attack the village.

Surely, a lull in historic events during his time travel trip wouldn’t have been too much to ask.

He looks about himself. In the semi-darkness of his hiding spot, a narrow alleyway that flattens each noise, it is easy to sink into a false sense of safety. He is positive that this time, however, he managed to outrun his giant stalker. What is more, the chakra seal, if he correctly remembers Tsunade’s words, effectively dampens his own signature down to such a low level to make it hard on anyone to spot him. There is a not-too-shabby chance for him to remain undetected by the false Senju, which would be at least one advantage in this array of mishaps and calamities that seems to be his damned life. And a highly welcome one, too, because Kakashi’s vision blurs, and he sinks to one knee, fingers sprawled on the ground. Just a minute, he thinks, to catch my breath.

In the back of his mind, he hears Naruto’s preening voice: Not so young anymore, eh, sensei?

Kakashi huffs. Brash even in his own head. He thinks of Sarada’s bubbling laughter, of tiny sticky hands reaching out to him. True, he is getting older. Probably not in the Springtime of his Youth anymore. But what comes after spring, he thinks, takes a breath, and forces himself back on his feet. He can practically hear Gai’s voice in answer: The Burning Hot Days of Summer.

*

The moon is a thin sickle in the sky, its contour starkly pronounced against the inky-black that, slowly now, tinges into a saturated cobalt. That its iridescent light is too weak to reach the garden does not hinder Madara to walk along the engawa with the house beyond in still and utter darkness. He lets the sharingan lead him. They are cat’s eyes when he needs them to be, reflecting the tiniest light so that he walks securely on naked feet.

The wind rustles in the low-hanging, countless arms of the mourning willow which grows at the heart of Madara’s private garden. The sickle-moon reflects in the pond beneath, the water’s surface undisturbed, a perfect mirror. It is a beautiful sight. It would be peaceful, too, if it weren’t dyed with regret because it was a gift from Hashirama. Madara cannot even think of the man without a flame of anger kindling deep inside his gut, impractical and pointless but undeniable in its intensity.

Madara halts his steps for long enough to appreciate the beauty before his eyes.

Hashirama’s ascent to Hokage already lies a few months in the past by now. It is time to let go of the grudge, the regret. His old friend, not even he is stubborn enough to deny, keeps extending his hand with his calloused palm open and vulnerable enough.

Yet, every time Madara is tempted to soften his stance, to strike a compromise at the negotiating table that their council meetings have turned into, the memory rises bitter and unbidden: Hashirama took the Hokage hat, under protest that, in retrospect, feels feebler every time Madara thinks about it.

He takes a deep breath and releases it through the nose.

A shame, really, not to be able to enjoy any longer what has once been his inner sanctum.

Instead of dwelling on the feeling, he continues his path. The premises have grown far-reaching and intricate in their layout, built not by Hashirama’s Mokuton jutsu but by Uchiha hands. Madara’s insistence on that point has cost them over half a year of construction time and an eye-roll from the insufferable demon-eyed Senju brat, who kept pointing out that the comforts of a fully constructed home far outweighed Madara’s need to make some sort of political statement.

But Madara did not relent. He, probably better than anyone else, knows about the importance of self-reliance. Yes, Hashirama could have constructed in a day what took them eight months to build, but it would also put his clan in debt to him. Madara wants the Uchiha to remember their independence, and if it meant to inhabit tents and clay-huts for the best part of a year, then that simply was what it was.

His destination is a part of the house he rarely ever visits. He knows it by heart because of the blueprints he used to study, not because of his presence there. An irony, yes, but the constant struggle with the council, with Senju Tobirama and his newly found interest in the old scrolls in the Uchiha library have kept him busy, and keep his mind off the tinge of regret that threatens to impend on him in quiet moments.

The fabric of his robes whispers as he steps into the house, trailed by a whiff of cool night’s air. The floor is littered with bedspreads, its occupants in different states of disheveled sleep, some of them spread like a starfish with short limbs in every which way.

The smell of the room is sweet and brings back memories of a dilapidated hut, of too-warm nights and too many bodies stacked against each other like a litter of kittens.

In the corner of a room, Sara stirs from her bedrest, rubbing at her eyes as she takes him in. Commendably quickly, her gaze turns sharp as she realizes a potential intruder, but Madara steps closer into her field of vision, and her eyes widen again, surprised by the sight of him.

Belatedly, she remembers her manners and bows, so deeply the top of her head presses into the folds of her blanket.

Madara turns, and his eyes find the infant he is looking for. The girl — a three-year-old, according to the nursemaid — is curled into a ball and fast asleep. She looks even smaller than when Madara picked her out of the shinobi’s arms the other day. Her plumage-black hair, the fair complexion of her skin: he senses what he cannot quite explain.

This bundle of a child, small for her age and pale, looks rather peaceful now in her sleep. That peacefulness is betrayed by the small, swollen face, however, by dried snot around the button nose and eyes cried red. Madara has grown up with younger brothers, he knows the telltale signs, even without the nursemaid telling him, a moment later in the adjacent room.

“She wouldn’t sleep”, Sara says, wringing her hands in fear of admonition. “I could hardly bring her to calm down. She cried for hours and hours.”

“Anything useful?”, he asks and she isn’t surprised about the coldness in his demeanor. She shakes her head, does not dare to raise her eyes to his. He finds it an irritable trait in the people around him, this constant submissiveness that borders so close to apprehension he can hardly distinguish it anymore. Has it always been this bad?

“N-no”, she says. “All my sharingan did was lull her to sleep. I haven’t managed to –”

Madara puts up a hand. He knows Sara’s sharingan have only awoken a few months prior, and the abilities she has displayed with it are subpar thus far. It is quite disappointing, but there is still potential and it is enough to task her to tend to the children and watch over them, as he instructed the day the Uchiha affiliated themselves with the Senju.

“It’s fine. I will see to it in the morning.”

“But, Uchiha-sama—” Her face is a pale display of astonishment as she looks up to him, round and plain. Anger sprouts immediately and unbidden. He knows what she wants to say, and is about to intervene before she can – he does not need to hear the concern of a woman who cannot even dream of ever developing half a decent dojutsu, let alone the Mangekyo – when rapid footsteps interrupt them.

Sara’s mouth snaps shut and her expression closes back into its demure neutrality, as Madara turns to the approaching shinobi.

“What is it?”, he asks.

“The village, Uchiha-sama”, Hikaku says, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead. “It is under attack.”

For the fraction of a second, Madara is stunned to silence. An attack on the village? _His_ village? His eyes narrow. “Inform the council. I want guards around the compound. Make sure they cover all the entrances and windows. Keep an eye on the rooftops.”

Hikaku nods, his mouth set with an intent Madara can appreciate.

“Two shinobi with the children. You, don’t leave them out of your sight.”

Sara bows hastily. “Y-yes, Uchiha-sama!”

Their steps are soundless as they retreat to make their way through the house. Hikaku parts from him to reach the inner chambers where the Uchiha council members reside, while Madara takes a detour to fetch shuriken and a kusarigama from his private weapon arsenal. He is pleased to hear that not soon after, the bells begin to chime their alarm, stirring the peace. Madara catches the tail end of their sound before he is outside. He reaches out, but his senses have always been dull when it comes to chakra detection. He never saw the need to hone that particular skill. In any case, _this_ is what Tobirama is supposed to be good for, to excel at. What, he asks himself with anger in his gut, even is the value of having a renowned sensor on their side if he cannot detect an ambush?

The strange sense of vindication he feels at this thought is completely misplaced and unsatisfying. He cannot wait to get his hands on the useless Senju brat, but first, he has to crush whatever low lives have decided for it to be a good idea to attack his village.

Madara is not worried, not anxious when he makes his way through the still silent streets. Even as the alarm starts to sound throughout, with voices rising in various iterations of surprise and confusion, he is secure in the knowledge that whoever had the guts to wake them from their sleep will regret it deeply, immediately, and thoroughly.

Madara’s sensory skills might be underdeveloped, but even he cannot miss the chakra presences kindling like low-burning flames around the village, cumulating at the east entrance. A steady low thrum like a promise in the air. It smells of ozone, of war, the silent moment before a battle commences. _How_ could Tobirama have missed this? He has half a mind to rush to the outskirts of the village, to crush the invaders like ants under the heel of his sandal, but before the plan can fully form in his mind he realizes it is too late for that.

Shouts start to echo through the streets, and he hears it, the metal sounds of blades meeting.

Anger boils. Madara, who appreciates a fight more than the average shinobi, relishes in it as any artist would to hone their craft, despises the mere thought of an invasion into the village. It is supposed to be a safe zone, for those who are too young or too weak to fight; it is for the children, who are not to see the corpse-strewn battlegrounds any longer.

And that anger propels him forward, raises the chakra from the soles of his feet to the very tips of his fingers until he is positively bristling with it. Wind brushes against his face as he runs, past windows that one after the other is being lit; past prying faces pale and concerned, looking for what is going on. Within minutes that, absurdly, still feel like an eternity through his adrenaline-quick pulse, he spots a figure up on the rooftops. Their chakra signature is unfamiliar, certainly not an Uchiha, not earthen like a Senju’s, either.

Madara lunges, and the wolf’s grin on his face is unconscious but pronounced, as he lands soft-footed before the giant shinobi.

"You will perish for this infraction", he informs him, the surge of heat in his lungs a deadly vindication. "As will the rest of your tribe."


	5. Chapter 5

Before Madara stands a giant of a shinobi, broad-shouldered, the expressionless face waxen in the increasing light of dawn. He carries a sickle in his right hand, holds his left arm to his chest in a way that tells of a recent injury. If he already encountered a shinobi of Konoha and is not captured or dead, this can only mean he defeated them. But most starkly, most irritatingly, are the clothes he wears: It is the typical hakama and haori of the Senju clan, the familiar crest embroidered on each shoulder. Madara has the vague sense to have seen that face around, too, although these days he hardly ever bothers to look closely at anyone not on par with his own skill set.

“You are not a Senju”, Madara says. The air around them thrums with the unmistakable energy of wind chakra. It is a force much stronger than Madara would ever have deemed to ignore in a fellow shinobi. From the ragged looks of his opponent, he is wearing the henge for quite some time now, which tells of an impressive handle on chakra control. “Reveal yourself.”

The intruder cocks his head, much like a gigantic dog. The stare of his red-rimmed eyes is long and hard, unceasing enough to be eerie. 

Smoke rises in the distance. Beneath them, a handful of Uchiha run down the street in its direction. The man at their head is shouting orders. It sounds like Hikaku’s voice, but Madara does not take his eyes off his opponent to check. 

“You are not my opponent”, the intruder says. His voice scrapes like a kunai across stone, a deep, guttural rumble that, Madara admits, has the potential to unsettle a lesser shinobi than himself.“Oh, but I _am_ ”, Madara replies. “After all, you came to besiege _my_ village. Now show me your face, intruder.”The giant shinobi inclines his head. “As you wish.”

But instead of dropping the henge like Madara expected him to, the giant takes off with what must be a chakra-induced leap to speed head-first towards Madara. Almost impressed by the boldness of the move, Madara stands his ground for the blink of an eye it takes for his opponent to draw close, allows for a smile that he hopes lingers like an afterimage because now he is _behind_ the imposter, the side of his hand coming down hard on the other’s muscled neck.

The giant drops to his knees with a grunt, remains upright like this for another moment before he crashes, face first, onto the sturdy shingles. Madara looks down on the lifeless figure and scoffs.

“Disappointing.”

The horizon has started to tinge a pale orange. From his spot Madara has a good view onto streets that begin to fill with shinobi in battle-gear: Uchiha and Senju alike stream from every direction towards the eastern border of the village, where the skirmish has ensued. He can see them from here, the bulk of foreign shinobi the size of a decent army. Like crawling vermin the intruders spread into the village’s streets. Madara clenches his fist, tears his eyes away from the horrendous view, and shoves his foot under the shinobi before him to turn him over.

The figure has shrunk perceptibly. The henge now nothing more than an evaporated illusion, the man lying in front of Madara swims in clothes that are several sizes too big for his body, even though the figure appears well-trained. Madara hunkers down to inspect the strange tattoo crawling like the claw of a dragon over half of the bald man’s face.

“I know you”, he says but the memory is almost too vague to recall. “We met on a battlefield once. Back then you were a much worthier opponent, if I recall correctly.”

Before Madara can dwell on it, however, the shinobi’s eyes fly open and his hand darts up with a speed that was missing from his movements before. It is so fast, in fact, that Madara’s attempt at a parry fails even before his normally quick instincts can fully comprehend the intent. The hand lands on Madara’s face with sprawled fingers that dig into his temples, his cheeks. The gesture is so sudden, so strange and intimate that fear uncurls in Madara’s stomach and shoots enough adrenaline through his body to make his heart pound fast. 

“You —”, he starts and recognizes his own feeble attempt to mask his surprise. He tries to jerk his head away, but the grip is so unexpectedly strong he cannot manage, and that alone leaves his mouth dry.

The usual excitement he would feel in the face of such power fails to materialize. All that he is left with is a need to get away, growing in its urgency with every passing second. With a strange kind of horror he realizes that the digits are edging closer to his eye sockets. Unbidden and immediate, he finds himself in a dark room, kneeling before a bedspread that holds Izuna’s unmoving body. In this image, it is Madara’s hand that claws, goes for the eyes that his brother won’t be needing anymore.

“Let go”, Madara manages to utter. “Stop.”

His hands clutch at the man’s wrist, but to no avail. The tips of the other’s fingers slip into place. Madara groans as the pressure increases. It is a pain his brother must have felt, surely, and this scene is like the worst depths of Madara’s frequent nightmares, so much so that he suddenly wonders if he is, after all, still dreaming.

If that were the case, however, he surely wouldn’t suffer pain as stark and accentuated as he is now, and even as he bites the inside of his cheeks he cannot help the pained moan that escapes, one that is pulled from deep inside of him, from a place of sorrow so deep he never learned to grasp it.

When it is over, it is Madara who finds himself on his knees. He clutches the empty sockets of where his eyes, _Izuna’s eyes_ , were a moment ago. Warmth gushes down his cheeks, tastes stale when it reaches his mouth. 

“No”, he manages, disbelief and shock shaking him to his very core. “What have you done. No.”

He reaches out, grabs for the sound of rustling clothes as his opponent withdraws. But his movements are feeble and he misses, his fingers clawing into thin air. His limbs shake from the utter audacity, the impossibility of it: he, Uchiha Madara, struck down by a second-class shinobi. His sharingan, taken.

“Your name”, he spits as his arm drops, “I need to know your name.”

The rustling of clothes ceases, as do the steps against the shingles. The chakra presence hovers and thrums somewhere to Madara’s left, and only now he realizes what crucial part it is missing, something he has not even thought to look for when he first approached: The lack of killing intent, a normalcy to every battle encounter, is suddenly so stark and obvious Madara doesn’t understand how he could have missed it.

In the end, Madara doesn’t receive an answer. The moment ceases, and the chakra presence vanishes as the shinobi takes off, leaving Madara behind. In the stillness that follows, humiliation starts to impound on the layers of shock, pierces them and hits Madara in the gut. 

But he won’t be overcome by self-pity. Not be overcome by guilt for giving up Izuna’s eyes like this. Anger, always handy when he needs it, rises, spreads, and covers everything else, until his body steadies and he is back on his feet. 

There is no choice, he knows. He will retrieve Izuna’s sharingan, and then he will _kill_ the man that took them, and with him every shinobi that gets in Madara’s way.

*

With his back pressed against the wall, Kakashi risks a peek around the corner. The shadows of his hiding spot grow lighter quickly. Not too long ago, someone opened a window above his head, and all they had to do to spot him would have been to look straight down. The back of his neck tingles with the anticipation of being found. Even if his ANBU days are long over, the training is ingrained into his bone marrow and this lack of cover makes him profoundly uneasy. Nothing to be done about it but to move on, and fast.

Two shinobi fly around the corner at the end of the street Kakashi is watching. If the dark hair, pale complexion and wide-collared clothes are anything to go by, they belong to the Uchiha clan. Kakashi pulls back and watches them pass. They both carry kama at their sides, an ancient, sickle-like weapon that has long become obsolete in Kakashi’s time. 

Once they are out of sight, Kakashi starts out. Every instinct in his body cries _cover_ as he hastens across the open street. For the first time, he is starkly aware of the clothes he is wearing. The dark grey color of his standard issue uniform might be inconspicuous enough in the twilight, but both material and style differ substantially from the clothes of the past. While blending in is a tactic he generally prefers, it is not an option now. He just has to hope that in the hubbub of the attack, no one will pay close attention to him.

He comes as far as what he registers to be the outskirts of the Uchiha compound. In stark difference to every other array of houses, the Uchiha’s residences are hidden behind a man-high wall. Another group of shinobi trails past him, and he ducks behind what looks like a hastily abandoned cart. Waiting until they are out of sight leaves him to listen to the growing battle noises. The ozone smell of spent jutsu thickens the air perceptibly now. Clouds of black smoke have started to rise into the pale sky. It takes more of him than he would have expected to ignore the battle that unfolds eastwards. To know that this is not the Konoha of his time doesn’t take away from the fact that it still is _Konoha_ , with all that it stands for. All that Kakashi ever fought to protect. 

Madara’s overwhelming chakra signature still hums in the background, leaving Kakashi to wonder why the man doesn’t make short process of the intruders that threaten to destroy his village. It crosses his mind that the man that would one day absorb the Tailed Beasts to become, at least for a small moment, the most powerful being on earth, has not reached the heights of his infamous strength yet. After all, Kakashi saw him as a child, as a young man still uncouth, felt the aspirations resonate in his skull as Obito’s sharingan pulsated with energy and pulled him deeper into Madara’s psyche. But it is hard for Kakashi to think of Madara as anything other than the catalyst of catastrophe, of a war that took everything out of him, his team, and all shinobi of the Elemental Nations. 

It is hard not to think Madara capable of destroying them all with a flick of his fingers.

Kakashi also has to ask himself if Madara is at all dedicated to protecting the village in the first place, considering that he is going to abandon Konoha somewhere along the way. 

The chime of the alarm bells has become a grating background noise that eats away at Kakashi’s nerves. Moving on now, he finds cover in the bushes near the wall. To his frustration he realizes that the outskirts of the compound are heavily watched, more than he would have expected. An Uchiha patrol is positioned at seemingly every nook and cranny, and Kakashi can’t help but think that instead of guarding this one part of the village so closely, these Uchiha soldiers should be at the battle lines, defending all of it. 

Their heavy presence will make it infinitely harder for him to infiltrate the compound and look for Sarada. 

Before Kakashi can begin to formulate a plan, however, a man comes running toward the entrance gate. He looks panic-stricken and out of breath and he yells something, but Kakashi is too far away to make out any words. He gestures frantically, and soon, a cluster of shinobi forms around him. To Kakashi’s utter astonishment, they abandon their posts and take off. He stares after them, not quite believing his luck.

Determined not to squander this moment, he is about to leave cover and swing himself over the wall, when a second figure approaches the gates. 

Senju Tobirama, Kakashi notes to his infinitive relief, is very much a grown-up man at this point in the past. He might be leaner about the shoulders, but the white shock of hair and the war markings on his face are identical to how Kakashi remembers the Nidaime from the battlefield. Albeit this version of him looks much younger (and much less ruffled-up), the gaze of his red eyes is already as stern and unwavering as that of his Reaper Death seal counterpart as he confronts the single guard that is left at the gate.

If Tobirama appears in the Uchiha compound while the village is in such a state of unrest, Kakashi reasons, it must be for matters that admit no delay. 

Kakashi knows it is a risk, but he needs to hear what they are saying, so he moves away from the relative safety of the bushes and uses the shadow the wall throws as cover to slink closer to the gates, until the voices carry to his ears. No matter how careful he is, though, each of his movements is accompanied by the occasional chink of the chains that dangle from his wrists. The noise appears perpetually loud to Kakashi’s ears, even though he is sure that Tobirama can’t hear it over the chiming of the bells. Kakashi forces himself to push through the anxiety it induces, another one of his instincts disregarded. “I’m here for the girl”, Tobirama is saying. Kakashi’s pulse quickens. The deep voice carries to him clearly enough. It resounds from Tobirama’s ribcage with all the self-assuredness of a man of high standing, leaving no room for argument or questioning.

It is apparently enough to intimidate the Uchiha kunoichi in front of him. She looks up at Tobirama, the red of her sharingan made even brighter by the paleness of her skin. As Kakashi watches, his heart pounds away in his chest in the frantic rhythm of hope, anticipation and fear. 

By the look of discomfort on her face, it appears the kunoichi knows exactly what Tobirama is talking about. She bows to him. “I beg your pardon, Tobirama-sama, but Madara-sama’s instructions were very clear. We are not to allow anyone near the children, under any circumstances.”

“Do I look like I care about Madara’s instructions?”, Tobirama replies.

“T-Tobirama-sama, please, if you’d just wait for Madara-sama to return —” 

“If you haven’t noticed yet, girl, a battle is raging in our village as we speak. I don’t have time to wait around for your clan head. We have a prisoner on the loose. For all we know, the man has already infiltrated your clan’s compound. I need to retrieve the girl and take her to safety before he gets to her first."

Kakashi realizes that this might be the best outcome he could have hoped for: If Tobirama fetches Sarada from the Uchiha compound for him, Kakashi can seek him out to explain. He thinks of the scroll in the forbidden section of the library again, the sharply lilted kanji that expand on a jutsu that would enable a shinobi to travel through time and space. If anyone will believe him, it is Tobirama. And Kakashi will be the first to admit that he feels a hundred times better knowing Sarada in the future Nidaime’s hands than in Madara’s.

“Now bring me the girl”, Tobirama is saying, “or I will get her myself.”

Kakashi watches on as the woman bows and, albeit haltingly, withdraws into the depths of the compound.

Kakashi is too weary a person to trust his streak of luck, but he decides to roll with it for as long as it lasts, and see where it takes him. Not that he has much of a choice.

He keeps a close eye on Tobirama as he is waiting. His pulse flutters a tad too unsteady for his liking and he is positively brimming with nervous energy. Regardless, he is pleased to find his judgement of Madara’s actions affirmed. As Kakashi thought, a man like him would not give away a girl he thinks is Uchiha. He would keep her close, and be it just to reassure himself that Kakashi told a lie. 

At least five minutes pass before the kunoichi appears again, with another woman by her side. This second one holds a bundle in her arms. He strains his eye to see Sarada’s face, but he can’t make out much more than the dark, sleep-tousled head of hair, a pale round cheek. Sarada sucks her thumb in her slumber. She looks unscathed, almost peaceful. The relief he feels is so stark it is dizzying and he needs to close his eye for a moment. Thank gods, he thinks, but it is Obito’s and Rin’s smiling faces that come to the forefront of his mind. Thank whoever watches over that child.

Tobirama reaches out for Sarada. The Uchiha woman hesitates, and Kakashi holds his breath, but then she gives in and hands the girl over. Another wave of relief runs through Kakashi as he watches how the future Nidame cradles the girl in the crook of his right arm. Now, he needs to make Tobirama understand. Needs to proof himself, and he thinks to have just the way to do it.

He gives Tobirama a slight head start before he follows, drawing back into the shadows of the bushes and then the cart. He manages to stay out of sight by good timing and quick reflexes, all acquired through decades of stealth training. He hasn’t made use of these skills in the field for years, and to his surprise he finds himself strangely exhilarated as he presses himself against walls and merges with shadows. 

Still, following Tobirama without any use of his chakra to conceal the sounds of his movements is a balancing act. If he comes too close, Tobirama will hear the chains or his footsteps, the rustling of his clothes; if he falls back too many corners, he will lose sight of the man. Kakashi is not willing to take that risk. Once or twice he catches a half-glimpse of Sarada’s face. The dark lashes fan over her cheeks as she is nestled in the blanket. He doubts her unnaturally deep sleep is anything but dojutsu-induced, but Kakashi can’t say that he isn’t grateful she is spared the anxiety.

Tobirama takes a sudden stark turn to the left and catches Kakashi by surprise, and he needs to fasten his steps to keep up. It itches in Kakashi’s brain like a discordant sound. The Senju buildings, if he is not entirely mistaken, lie in the opposite direction. 

Dawn has finally approached, throws its golden blanket over the buildings and streets. It deprives Kakashi of many an option of unnoticed pursuit, and he is already wagering taking to the rooftops again when the thoughts tumble out of his head, ousted by the earth-shattering sound of an explosion that reduces his world to a high-pitched shriek in his ears. The earth beneath his feet rumbles, vibrates so hard it makes his teeth clatter, throws him off-balance and shoulder-first into the next wall. Instinctively he ducks, clutches his arms over his head. Dust is everywhere, and heat bakes into his skin. 

Black, sulfury smoke fills his lungs. Kakashi presses his eyes closed and his hands fumble for the wall as he stumbles forward. 

"Help!", someone cries.

Kakashi’s head perks up. He stubs his toes on rubble as he makes for the direction of the increasingly insistent cries. The tinge of panic in the young voice is like a crescendo that pours new adrenaline into Kakashi’s body. He blinks through yellow dust and smoke, his eye burns and he still cannot see a thing.

"Help me, _please_ help."

Through the latent, pulsating ache, Kakashi forces the sharingan open.

It’s a boy, and he is kneeling in front of a pile of rubble, his hands digging into stones and wood as he tries to unearth whatever lies beneath. Kakashi’s world is tinged in red now, but with every beat of his heart the sharingan spins into focus until his vision becomes impeccably clear. A hole is blown into the side of a house, and beneath a rafter on the ground he can make out an arm, fingers splayed but moving. He even thinks to hear a moan, but it must be his imagination.

Because there is a pounding in his ears that matches the rush of ocean waves, and Kakashi _focuses_ . Obito’s eye burns, but the Mangekyo finds its form, and then the air swims in front of them, swirls and turns until the rubble dissipates with a satisfying _fhump_. 

The boy’s snot-smeared face is staring up at him in wonder, but Kakashi hardly notices because the pain of Obito’s eye is a drill inside his eye socket that brings him to his knees. Vaguely he registers the boy’s movement as he scrambles towards the figure of a woman now unearthed, and Kakashi is glad to see her sitting up with the boy’s help, covered in soot and dirt but alive. It’s about the last thing he is capable of thinking before the pain overwhelms him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to add a Slow Burn tag. It is, uhm, probably appropriate at this point.
> 
> This beast was supposed to be over after 30.000 words. It grew. Likely going to double that number, oh my.
> 
> Again, thank you all for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

“Young man”, the hoarse voice coaxes again, “come to. We do not have time for this.” This time, the slap against his cheek is everything but gentle. Keeping the ball of his hand pressed against Obito’s sharingan, Kakashi blinks his other eye open. He finds a face hovering over his, the lines of age ingrained so profoundly into the spotted, dirt-smeared skin it almost resembles a mask. A curtain of thick, white hair frames the woman’s face.

“Good, good”, she says. Her dark eyes inspect him uncomfortably closely. A stone is lodged in Kakashi’s lower back. He must have gone down like a felled tree.

“Quite impressive, to use an Uchiha technique like that”, the old woman says. Kakashi sits up slowly. Every last fibre in his body aches with exhaustion, but it is his head that is nearly killing him. The migraine throws black spots in front of his good eye, blurs his vision. Seeking some semblance of relief, he lowers his head, but the movement induces nothing but nausea. “Mangekyo technique, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Granny, I think he’s going to spew.”

Got the right idea, kid, Kakashi thinks. He has enough sense left to pull the mask down before he leans over and loses his meager dinner to the dirt. His stomach heaves uncomfortably, but he feels better immediately. 

“Oh dear.”

Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, Kakashi turns his head — carefully — to look at the woman again. The black-haired kid stands a little behind her and peeks over her right shoulder at him. Kakashi stares, then sends a thinly veiled plea to heaven to let this craziness stop, and soon, because he doesn’t know how much more of it he can take. Shisui, he thinks, and even though it is the baby-version of him, it is still true: Round-cheeked, big-eyed, the typical Uchiha complexion, even the gaze, which is a little apprehensive and mightily curious. 

“Goddamn”, Kakashi utters. He pulls the mask back up. Not Shisui, of course, but if this boy isn’t a _very_ close ancestor Kakashi will eat his Hokage’s hat.

“No swearing in front of the boy”, the old woman chides. Kakashi looks at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. Her frown deepens.

“Sorry”, he manages a little sheepishly. 

“Can you stand?”, she asks.

Kakashi gets to his feet without help, and although he is jittery, he counts that as a win. Around them, smoke swirls thick in the air, clogs Kakashi’s nostrils, settles in his mouth and lungs. The boy coughs.

“You should go”, he says, because they cannot stay here.

“I know just the place”, the woman replies.

“I need to find my … charge”, Kakashi says. “She was in the vicinity when the explosion happened.”

“What you need is a bit of tea and a good amount of rest.” The woman doesn’t wait for him to catch up. She gestures to the boy and, lifting her skirt, steps over the rubble into the direction of the village border. She walks nimbly, and though she is covered in soot, she seems otherwise unscathed. The boy — hardly older than ten, but Kakashi has never been good at guessing children’s ages — follows suit, not without waving Kakashi to follow.

“Come on, nii-san.”

Kakashi doesn’t move. He eyes the chaos around him. The impact cannot have happened far from here. He racks his brain for a jutsu that manages to blast away houses, and only a few come to mind. His only solace is the knowledge that Tobirama is a proficient shinobi, fully capable of evading such an attack. In his current state, Sarada might be safer with _him_ than Kakashi.

“Young man”, the old woman beckons. She and the kid have made it out of the rubble. Her voice just so carries to Kakashi’s ears. Somewhere in the distance he hears a battlecry. Another explosion, further away, smaller. “You’ve fought enough for one day. You need to gather your strength before you can do anything else.”

Kakashi hesitates for another moment. He knows she is right. He relinquished the last of his strength with kamui, and now there is nothing left. He throws a last glance over the desolation that a moment ago was a peaceful side street, then he follows.

“Nobody has called me that in a long time”, he says when he finally catches up with them at the outskirts of the village. The boy is sent to open a gate that marks its border. “Young man, I mean.”

“Is that so?”, she asks and eyes him from the side. “You don’t seem that old to me.”

“I’ve felt younger”, Kakashi replies with a smile.

“We all have.” Her gaze lingers on the boy who is now stalking ahead across a pathway into a patch of light trees that lies just beyond the village line. “Except Kagami here. It is hard to faze him.”

“Your grandson?”, Kakashi inquires.

When the woman smiles, her face crinkles up even more. A streak of soot sits on her nose. She nods.

“My daughter’s son”, she explains. Her features relax, the corners of her mouth go straight again. “Why don’t you explain to me how you and your _charge_ wound up in Konoha?” she asks. Kakashi’s gaze follows hers, lands on the shackles around his wrists. 

“Let me guess, you’re usually more welcoming than this?”

“No”, she replies, “we vet each and every visitor, and make sure to extinguish every threat.”

Kakashi smiles.

“Not going to extinguish me, though?”

“You are not a threat to me”, she says matter-of-factly. “I can tell that you are bound by more than just these shackles. I might be old, but as long as your chakra is sealed, I can take you.”

Kakashi hums.

“I have no doubt about that.”

They leave the path to make way through the undergrowth. Kakashi is not surprised when they stop before the entrance of a cave, shrouded by foliage and high grass. The boy — Kagami — has hardly started to push the cover aside, when an echoed cry sends Kakashi into high alert. A shadow appears from the darkness inside and then a middle-aged woman flings her arms around Kagami, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Kakashi’s shoulders slump.

“Kagami! Linh-san! Oh, thank heaven you two are alright.”

“We were on our way here when we were held up by the explosion, Yui”, Linh says. As Yui’s eyes fixate on Kakashi, she continues: “This young man helped me. I wouldn’t be here without him.”

Linh’s words do nothing to dissipate the mistrust on Yui’s features as she takes in Kakashi’s appearance. Her eyes, too, linger on the remainders of the shackles. 

“He’s the prisoner”, she hisses. “The one people talk about. The Hatake.”

“He is a soldier”, Linh replies simply. “We need him.”

“Looks like he can hardly stand on his own. How is he supposed to be of any help? Besides”, the woman frowns, “why do you think the attackers haven’t come for our village to save _him_?”

“Because he fought one of them”, Linh replies. “He barely got away with all his limbs intact.” Kakashi looks at her in surprise. Linh throws him a mild glance. “My eyes are sharper than people give me credit for. Come now, this is not the time to linger and expose ourselves to the enemy. Hurry inside.”

With another apprehensive stare at Kakashi, Yui re-enters the cage, funneling Kagami before her.

“Thanks”, Kakashi says as he follows Linh.

“Don’t thank me yet. I will keep an eye on you, stranger.”

Kakashi inclines his head.

“Certainly. My name is Kakashi, by the way.”

“I’m glad you understand the necessity of my mistrust, Kakashi-san. Now please, come inside. We need to regroup and formulate a plan.”

Kakashi has to hand it to her, that woman has resolve. 

Upon entering, Kakashi is hit with the wet-damp smell of soil and stone, mixed with the sour odor of too many bodies cramped in one spot. It takes a moment for his eye to adjust to the low light of a single torch. A small pathway leads them deeper, and Kakashi wagers the cave must lie at least five meters underground. He has no recollection of this spot in his version of Konoha, but he isn’t surprised that a hide-out like this would not stand the test of time. One well-aimed blow and they would be buried under rocks. He avoids inhaling too deeply, as not to make himself aware of how thin the air around them has already become. 

This cannot be more than an emergency rendezvous-spot, a place to gather out of sight to move on quickly.

“Where are we headed?”, he asks in a low voice. He counts at least two dozen heads as they reach a bulbous chamber. The earth around them is a solid dome interwoven with thin, sprawling roots. 

“Into the mountains, if me must”, Linh responds. “I know it is too dangerous to stay in this cave for long, but first we need to wait for those who haven’t yet made it here. We will use the time to give first aid to those in need.” She eyes him again with that sharp gaze. “Like you, Kakashi-san. Please sit down. I will be with you shortly.”

Kakashi, who knows a medical nin when he sees one — all of them seem to share a rather pragmatic, hands-on mentality when it comes to treating their patients — gives in without complaint. In fact, he can hardly deny the relief when he slowly sinks into a sitting position and leans against the earthen wall. He turns his head to smell at it. It is a cool smell, soothing.

“Nii-san, you’re going to be fine.” A small face pops into his field of vision. Kagami shows a gap-toothed smile full of childlike confidence. It is strangely soothing, too. “Granny is really good at healing people. But her teas are yucky. Don’t tell her I said that.”

Kakashi crinkles his eyes. He feels the dirt backed into his skin, dried and uncomfortable. 

“I won’t.”

When Kagami pulls a face, Kakashi asks: “You alright, kid?”

Startled, Kagami looks up at him.

“Sure!” But his eyes dart about the place as if he didn’t quite trust his surroundings. It gives him the appearance of a startled doe.

“I’m not particularly fond of dark, narrow places either”, Kakashi says. Especially not ones that remind me of that fatal first mission as a freshly promoted jonin.

“I’m not afraid!”, Kagami sputters immediately. 

Kakashi nods.

“I know. I am, a little bit.”

Kagami’s eyes grow wide.

“Really?”

“Of course. I worry about the village. All the people that are still out there.”

“And your charge?”

Kakashi releases a steadying breath.

“Especially my charge”, he admits.

Kagami seems to contemplate this. It gives Kakashi time to look at the child, to allow for a moment’s wonder and nostalgia. How long since he last thought of Shisui, the shunshin expert he knew, if only briefly, as a fellow ANBU? A calculated thinker, a tactician, but also a blabbermouth who never quite heard of the idea of shutting up.

Annihilated like every other Uchiha of Kakashi’s time. How horrendous to think it, but the truth nonetheless. Now, only Sasuke and his daughter remain.

Worry pulls at something in Kakashi’s ribcage. How can he be sitting here, when Sarada is out there? 

“Where do you think you’re going?”, Linh asks. She appears out of the throng of people, whose chatter is low and fearful, carrying a pitcher and a stack of cups, a leather bag slung around her shoulder. Kakashi winces. She caught him on his feet. Very deliberately, Kakashi doesn’t sway.

“He wants to rescue his charge, granny!”, Kagami chimes in, “Like he rescued you. Right, nii-san?”

Linh’s eyes narrow.

“I can hardly sit around and do nothing”, Kakashi explains, gesturing with open palms. “She’s only three.”

“You are a fool if you think you can help her in your current state. Look at you. Any half-baked shinobi still wet behind the ears could put you down. _Are_ you a fool, Kakashi-san?”

Her inquiring eyes do not leave room for half-assed excuses, nor do her words, or the way she ignores Kakashi’s intentions and instructs Kagami to prepare a drink by pouring water into one of the cups and putting a suspicious-looking brownish powder into it.

“I take that as a hypothetical question”, Kakashi murmurs, but sits down again, “but since you asked, the answer would be yes, I’m afraid. At least more often than not.”

“I thought as much”, Linh replies. She doesn’t smile, but Kakashi thinks he catches a little humor in her sharp eyes. She instructs Kagami on how to stir the concoction. Kakashi watches in silence for a moment.

“You are a healer, right?”

“Fortunately for you, yes.”

“That means you are able to release the seals from my pathways.”

Linh looks up from her task, looks at Kakashi long and hard.

“I have that ability, yes.”

Kakashi meets her gaze silently.

“But I won’t do it”, she continues, “because I don’t know you.”

“And because I, a _Hatake_ , run around with a sharingan in my eye socket”, he says, and thinks, if I’d have gotten a ryo for each time someone has said that to me …

“Exactly. Do you have an explanation for that?”

“Yes”, Kakashi says with more vigor than intended. But then he hesitates. Because one answer just leads to another question, then another. Until he either straight-out lies, or tells the truth. And he doesn’t know the rules, does he? It is something he has been pondering, that has gnawed at the back of his mind since he first realized what has happened to him. What if his presence in the past changes anything? What if he inadvertently screws something up, what if a false word will change future events? Prevent Shisui from ever being born, for example? Kakashi isn’t sure about many things, but he _knows_ that this is something he doesn’t want to be responsible for. Better to choose his words carefully. Better not to reveal the truth to too many people. It is enough that he needs to talk to Tobirama about it.

Linh catches up on his hesitation. She doesn’t prod, though, just hands him the cup of tea. Kakashi is grateful for that. “You haven’t answered my question from earlier, either”, she says, changing the subject, “How you and your charge wound up in Konoha.”

As Kakashi takes the cup, he tries to hide that his fingers are shaking.

“I was attacked by a foreign shinobi”, he says truthfully. “Me and Sarada both. I managed to flee him. That was when … your clan head picked us up.”

“A foreign shinobi”, Linh repeats. “A scout, perhaps?”

“Not unlikely”, Kakashi replies. He thinks of Sand again, the wind jutsu his attacker used, but doesn’t expand on it. He would not want to start a rumor that some other clan was out to get Konoha, when he could be wrong, after all. She gestures for him to drink. He sets the cup to his lips and takes a sip of the concoction. It is bitter, and lingers on the tongue. 

“All of it, please. Trust me, if I were out to harm you I could do so without having to go to the trouble of poisoning you. A shuriken in your jugular would serve the same purpose and be much quicker.”

“Probably. Although poison is the more elegant option. Less to clean up.”

He knocks back the rest of it. It leaves a strong herbal taste in his mouth. It reminds him of the smell of the ointment they used to tread his injured foot.

A cackle erupts from the old woman’s chest. It takes Kakashi a moment to realize that the sound is meant to be a laugh. “Rest now, Kakashi-san. I will try so that no one throws you out while you do.”

“Try?”, Kakashi replies. He blinks, because his gaze is growing hazy. The medicine starts to take effect already, and with the sudden panic of a cornered animal, Kakashi sits up straight, attempting to shake the feeling of drowsiness that tries to overcome him.

“A jest”, Linh replies. Her dark eyes grow soft. Her hand is on his shoulder even though he has no recollection of her putting it there. “No one here wants to harm you. Everything will be fine, Kakashi-san.”

And Kakashi wants to believe her. With every fibre of his being, he does.

  
  


*

  
  


Anger resides in Madara like a sickness. All his life, he has known its waxing and waning like the never-ceasing tide of the ocean. And like the tide, its unflappable consistency lingers as residue in Madara’s consciousness, eager to crescendo at any provocation. Over time, he has learned to channel all that pent-up emotion into action. He knows of no other way to govern the rage that otherwise threatens to overthrow him, no way but forward to reign it in and keep the upper hand. 

So it is forward that he goes, even if in this instance it means to threaten all of the delicate balance struck between his clan and the Senju leaders.

Because it feels good to bury his fist in Tobirama’s clothes, to push him into the next best wall of the council room and up with enough force for the man’s feet to lose contact with the ground, to have him dangle at the mercy of the convulsing muscles in his arm.

Tobirama makes a gurgling sound. The nails of his clawing hands leave burning half-moon circles in the flesh of Madara’s lower arm. Madara feels the breath, smells the sweat and senses the defiance and all he wants to do is to wrap his hand around the exposed throat and throttle.

“Enough!” The thundering voice of Botan snaps him out of his reverie. He relinquishes his hold and Tobirama drops to the ground. “You bastard”, the Senju croaks. “You will regret this.”

“Not as much as you will”, Madara spits. Even though Botan does not dare touch him, he feels the presence of the elder hover over his left shoulder. He takes a step back.

“Regret what, you idiot?” The hoarseness in Tobirama’s voice is utterly satisfying. It is not often that Madara manages to throw the demon-eyed bastard off his guard. “I was not the one to bring the enemy to our gates by harboring a stranger in our midst. In secret, I might add. And I certainly did not lose you your eyesight.”

“What are you implying, Senju?”, Madara growls.

“It is not my fault that you are too weak to protect what is yours.”

“Enough”, Botan reiterates. Perhaps he has seen the strained muscles of Madara’s neck, the way he clenches and unclenches his fists at the slight. “We cannot know if the tribe comes for Madara-sama’s prisoners. Let us not jump to conclusions. Tobirama-sama, allow me to help you stand.”

“Thank you, Botan, but I am fine.”

Madara ignores Botan and scoffs. “You lost the Hatake. If it weren’t for you, we would still have him as leverage.”

“I did no such thing”, Tobirama replies. Already the arrogance has seeped back into his tone. Already Madara regrets not to have finally finished what he longs to do since the day he saw Izuna fall on that battlefield.

Madara pays no attention to his denials. “You could not wait to get your hands on the girl, either. Once again you interfered with Uchiha business. It is time for you to learn some respect, Senju.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“You came to our gates and demanded for the girl!”, Madara shouts. His body is like a furnace, fueled by his helpless frustration. His head throbs with every word. 

Tobirama’s derisive laugh is enough to send a new wave of rage through Madara.

“Why would I do such a thing in the midst of an ongoing attack on our village?”, he asks. The incredulity in his voice would not be enough to give Madara pause, but the calm interference of Tobirama’s second-in-command, Touka, is: “It is true, Madara-sama. I was with Tobirama-sama this whole time at the very forefront of the battlefield.”

“That you were absent from”, Tobirama remarks snidely.

“I don’t believe you”, Madara replies, persistent even through the first tendrils of doubt, “a guard and the nursemaid both saw you.”

“You say the intruder you faced used a henge”, Tobirama replies after a moment of silence. “Could it be that --”

“No shinobi in these climes is capable of holding a complex henge long enough to do that, certainly not multiple ones”, Madara interjects. But he thinks of the imposter that turned into the familiar face of a former enemy, the one he still cannot entirely place. He had dropped the henge, yes, but he had also overpowered Madara with chilling ease. Could he have been the one that posed as Senju Tobirama, to fetch the child? And if so, what reason could he possibly have?

“Just because _you_ do not know a way of doing so does not mean others don’t”, Tobirama replies. It is easy to hear the eye-roll in his tone, even though Madara is not able to see it. He turns away abruptly.

“Why, though?”, Tobirama muses. “You said the girl almost certainly has Uchiha roots. What does a Sand tribe want with that girl?”

“Blackmail comes to mind”, Botan says, “and if the Hatake is in cahoots with the tribe there are any number of reasons why they would be interested in retrieving the girl, too.“

“Daiki’s imposter attacked the Hatake first”, Touka says calmly. “The man only lives due to his quick relfexes. Besides, before he fled he helped me throw the false Daiki off.”

“A sharade?”, Botan asks.

“For whose eyes?”, Touka replies. 

“It seems only likely that the Sand tribe’s attack on Konoha and the Hatake’s sudden appearance are in some way connected. The girl’s abduction supports that theory”, Tobirama says.

“The Hatake could have been followed as he was crossing into our territory. He certainly has been attacked before I encountered him. My healers tell me that the wound inflicted on him carries the marks of a wind jutsu. It was a clear slice, reinforced in some way”, Madara says. 

“Your _healers_ had to tell you this? I thought you interrogated him?” Of course Tobirama sniffs out vulnerability like a pig sniffs mushrooms on the wet forest floor. “Is that not what your dojutsu is so infamous for? I mean, was?”

The sound erupting from Madara’s throat comes closer to a growl that he cares to admit. He edges forward. His fingers itch to be placed around that long neck. “Are you sure you want to make that claim, after you missed each and every chakra presence of a hundred shinobi besieging our village?” 

He can tell that he hits a vulnerable point, as Tobirama chooses silence over a snide reply. Madara feels the thrill of gaining the upper hand in an argument that goes deeper than any current issue.

Before he can push further, though, the door to the council room crashes open. A young voice calls: “Madara-sama! We have established contact with the enemy. Tobirama-sama. Council members.” Even out of breath, Hikaku makes a concerted effort to display his respect. Madara is sure he is bowing. 

His decision to make Hikaku commander of the Uchiha troops lies a year in the past by now, and still Madara harbors doubts if it was wise. Hikaku is a better diplomat than Madara will ever be, profoundly level-headed in moments when Madara merely feigns calmness. But the recent disappointment of losing the Hokage hat to Hashirama only festered his penchant for mistrust. Every time Hikaku addresses the elders on his own accord, Madara strains his ears for any sign of betrayal. 

“So? What do they want?”, Tobirama asks. 

“Water. Rations. Weapons, too.” 

“They are out for _supplies_?” Madara cannot entirely keep the tone of disbelief out of his voice. “All this for supplies?”

It draws a tense silence. The eyes of too many shinobi on him make Madara’s skin crawl. He does not need his eyesight to know that every last person in the council room is looking at him. What a pitiful sight they must think him to be: No matter how deeply he scowls, it cannot make up for the blindfold slung around his head to spare them the gruesome sight of his empty eye sockets. Part of him wants to rip it off, have them stare. A scream seems lodged in his windpipe.

“Did they ask for the prisoner?”, Tobirama inquires. 

“No”, Hikaku replies. 

“The girl?”, Madara asks.

“Which girl?”

“The girl I brought to the compound”, Madara snaps. Hikaku’s ignorance seems like an intentional affront. He hates that it makes him feel even more vulnerable before the council.

“Ah, no, Madara-sama. They did not mention her, either”, Hikaku replies hastily, sensing how thin the thread of Madara’s patience has worn.

“Hm. Interesting”, Tobirama says.

“Can you trace them?”, Madara asks despite himself. Oh, how he loathes to depend on the Senju, and be it for the most minuscule thing. He makes sure to have his disdain seep into his voice, his doubt that Hashirama’s younger brother would manage to contribute _anything_ useful. “Any of them?”

“I can’t sense the Hatake”, Tobirama replies, “because _someone_ thought it a good idea to seal his chakra away. The girl is too young, or too far away. I was able to sense Daiki’s imposter for a while, but he seems to have left the vicinity of my sensory reach.”

“And you haven’t thought of following him?”, Madara scoffs.

“Again”, Tobirama says it with the put-upon patience of talking to someone dense, “I was fighting a battle to defend our village, Madara. The impostor left through the northern gates and was heading south before I lost his track. I assume he must have decided to cross the border to the Land of Sand with his loot. His tribe certainly does not seem to miss him. And before you tell me that we need to send someone after him to retrieve what _you_ have lost, let me remind you _again_ that Konoha is under siege, and we have not a single shinobi to spare.”

Madara clenches his teeth around his retort. His rage is white-hot. He is trembling. “Hikaku.”

“Yes, Madara-sama!”

“Tell them that they will not get anything from us, not a single grain of rice. We will not be blackmailed into trading with these lowlives.”

His sudden command causes a disagreeable murmur to erupt in the room. Tobirama interjects, “Wait a moment”, Madara snaps, “Shut up, you demon”, and Botan says: “I do not think this wise, Madara-sama.”

“Even if you are certainly not used to it, try to think for once in your life --”

“I say we stomp them out and be done with it once and for all!”, Madara replies heatedly.

“Could you do me a favor, Madara, and stick your head out of your own behind for at least long enough to realize that you are acting brashly?”

“What did you just say?!”

But Tobirama keeps talking over him. “Even if we have the manpower to defeat the attackers, we will risk dire losses. We have already forty-three injured, twenty of them severely. Getting them to the negotiation table will leave us room to come up with a better plan than blind rage.”

Madara clenches his jaw so hard his teeth grind audibly. He breathes too quickly, too shallowly, and vaguely he is aware that his next words matter, that he should curb his impulse to reciprocate the cruelty of Tobirama’s choice words. 

“Hikaku, go. This is an order.”

But Hikaku continues to linger, and Madara realizes that he has overestimated his leverage. Where he once possessed power, undoubted and revered by all Uchiha, he has now nothing but a bloody, aching emptiness.

Thus, it almost doesn’t surprise him when Botan says:

“I am sorry, Madara-sama, but I think I speak for the rest of the council when I say that we are in agreement with Tobirama-sama’s viewpoint. Certainly, it is worth giving his tactic a try if we have the slightest hope to prevent further harm to our people. Maybe we even have a chance for Hashirama-sama to return from his travels before they attempt another attack.”

The anger, Madara understands, has not waned, not vanished into thin air. But it has turned silent, a flame so hot it turned white. It leaves him with that precarious sensation of being almost-empty, almost-calm. It fills his head with a static silence.

“Looks like you are outvoted, Madara”, Tobirama is saying. He does not even try to hide the satisfaction in his tone.

“Looks like it”, Madara says, and falls silent.He is not able to see the glance Hikaku exchanges with Botan, and if he could, he would read the worry on their faces as further confirmation of their betrayal. And can he even blame them, now that Izuna’s sharingan, the proof of his power, has been taken from him? Now that he is nothing more than a shell, no longer worthy of his position as clan head?

No wonder they can’t await the return of their precious _Hokage_.

The meeting is adjourned not long after. Hikaku and Touka are both sent to parley as neutral agents with the enemy’s spokesperson. Tobirama and some council members vanish into the obscurity of Hashirama’ study, adjacent to the Hokage’s seat. It is the center of power, and the ease with which Tobirama claims it in Hashirama’s absence makes Madara’s skin bristle with hatred.

But he does not linger, does not allow himself to ruminate. He has made up his mind even before the meeting, and it does not matter if they agree with him or not. His whole clan, from the elders to the commander of his troops are too dumb or too distracted to see the way they are being molded by the hands of the white-haired demon and his brother’s sweet, empty words of peace and cooperation.

The only way to make them see is to regain his power, and once he does, he will force _their_ eyes open to what is happening to the Uchiha clan, once and for all.

After all, he knows no other way but forward, because forward lies the opportunity to retrieve what is his. He cannot very well look back, when it would make him look weak.


End file.
